The Waking Dream
by Le Petit Chou Nerd
Summary: Five years after the death of Inquisitor Lavellan, Cullen is washed up, broken, and once more riddled with addiction. He ventures into the depths of the Arbor Wilds, looking for good coin where he can. Yet something lurked in the hollows of those ancient trees. Little did the former commander know of the power he woke from its slumber. (Cullen x Lavellan; Cullen x OC)
1. Chapter 1

Cullen decided that no matter how long he stayed there, he will never set eyes, foot, or ears at old groaning trees again. His only business, for business is what he's after, is to leave them be and not hack at them. Yet his "guide" – a coin-hungry and overgrown urchin eking out an existence in these ancient parts – was all too eager to _make_ a path rather than walk one. Could there be a path? The washed up ex-templar, former Inquisition commander, was a little too tired to care. The gold paid, and gold kept lyrium, and lyrium kept him from going insane. Or at least, it kept him from realizing his own insanity. His weary eyes, the amber hue turned a sunburnt grey, scanned the lush foliage that domed over them. Harsh piercing light trudged through between every arborous nook and cranny, but no matter their perseverance, shadows won the battle and dwelled in the forest ground. The color scheme of things thus had an ominously somber emerald, as if the forest was trapped in a lucid nightmare and the sun had yet to wake its lethargic vines.

It hadn't been his first time in the Arbor Wilds. The last time seven years prior had been less doomy and gloomy than whatever mood he was catching there. Then again, life had been less doomy and gloomy than whatever existence he was living there. If it were up to him, he would remain in Redcliffe, avoiding life, family, and friends, and wasting away in his own washed up circle. Don't all heroes end up like that? Had he not given his blood, his life, his heart for a cause he found bigger than himself? Yet what good did it do him? He was left more broken than ever, and now he found himself transported to the outskirts of modern existence just to prolong this suffering. Cullen's tongue clicked at the thought, somewhat distracted as he half-heartedly pushed the folds of fan-like leaves and skulking branches before him. "How much longer?" he asked somewhat annoyed.

The "guide" (and even in his head, Cullen found himself placing air quotes around the title) merely snickered and continued to hack away with his rusted machete. "Now, now, patience good ser. The forest is cunning. It hides its secrets, and each time we have to find it all over again!" The former commander found "the guide's" voice somewhat eerie, like that of an impish ghoul. He sighed at the evasive answer and ruffled his already-tousled hair. He noticed when a longer and uncouth strand fell on his eye, that one strand or two shone like bright silver. It was greying, aging – the signs of a life reaching its expiration. His thoughts wandered to seven years before, when he had been here with an army, a full head of blond hair. The forest was less unruly then. It allowed them to march unimpeded while he – a standing general – donned the helm of the red lion, heralding the mark of the Inquisition. A buzzing bug buzzed its way to his nose and snapped him out of the nostalgia. He shooed it away with his leather clad hand and sighed once more. Those days were gone, and it was best not to bring them back. Memories were like dead friends. They're fond to think of, back when they're alive that is, but they're not very pleasant when brought back as a corpse. The prospect of encountering the undead never really occurred to him, but now that he thought of it, he found one more thing for his aching bones to groan about. What if this ancient place had undead? Frustrated, he finally changed his mind and helped "the guide" hack away at another impetuous vine. If one needs lyrium, one must get lyrium. In the days since the Breach, since the rebellion, and since the dissolution of the Templars, it hadn't been easy. Yet if Cullen really thought about it, none of it had been easy.

"Tell me, ser...?" "the guide" momentarily turned back to him after hacking off another impertinent bush. It didn't occur to Cullen that he never really gave his name. All it took was a bag of gold in Aaron's Lodge, and he found himself a disinterested guide. Now, days into the less penetrated parts of the region, instincts to fraternize and engage in camaraderie were settling in, but Cullen had no interest. He merely had business, and business was the only thing in mind.

"Branson," he blurted out. It was the first name to come to his lips. Odd that he used a younger brother, far and estranged, as his guise.

"Ser Branson," the "guide" mimicked, "What is your interest in Elvhan ruins?"

Cullen raised an eyebrow at the pronunciation. In his days with the Inquisition, he remembered only the Dalish acquaintances of Lavellan, and Solas, were the only ones to emphasize the _real_ pronunciation of the adjective. His "guide" was definitely not "Elvhan," and it made him wonder what his true interest and affiliation with the ancient ground was.

"None," he replied curtly. Cullen was irritated that his only social contact the past three days had been with an eccentric crone hanging about in vines. He needed a drink – and lyrium – and he wasn't sure whether the coin from this expedition could even get him that much.

"Oh?" The "guide" skeptically cooed. He laughed, understanding that Cullen really wasn't going to open up anything, and the older man found it strange that his guest demanded their interactions be as limited as possible. Yet "the guide" had been in the Arbor Wilds long enough to guess at what these middle-aged men, tanned and stretched from their years of war and fighting, sought in these old groves. "Ser Branson" was not the first to venture forth into the abyss, hoping to make more coin for their suicidal bravery. "The guide" himself was somewhat bemused at the recent outpour of these tired out adventurers. After the Breach was sealed seven years ago, and the famed Inquisition disbanded with the death of its Inquisitor two years after, the Arbor Wilds have become somewhat of a "dying ground." Lost souls seeking either redemption or a means to living out their useless lives have come for treasures that noble coin greedily hungered for. He was merely there to reap at least some of its benefits. Is that not how coin worked? The "I scratch your back, you scratch mine" adage obviously works even in such cold and hardened times.

"Have you been here before, good ser?" the "guide" chimed almost too happily. He sheathed his machete when a more open clearing came to view. "You hear that sound?" the guide asked somewhat distracted. Cullen perked his ears to listen but heard nothing. "An old brook is coming up. It's a straight path to Andruil's Temple from there!"

Cullen heard nothing still, but he merely shrugged and followed. It suited him best to just go along with the plan. "Yes," he said too frankly, as if he merely called out the word for saying it.

The "guide" hummed a "heh?" before realizing what he was responding to. "Ah, so you must be a veteran of the Inquisition!" Cullen nearly froze at the "guide's" somewhat perceptive sleuthing. As if reading the confused ex-templar's mind, the haggard urchin continued in clarification, "Most folk I lead out here are scientists, researchers, or mercenaries ... never been here and don't know what they're doing. But you, you look around here as if you're looking for things you remember. Not really shocked at all the sights and sounds, eh, are you Ser Branson? But the last folk I remember seein' come by was all those years ago! The Inquisition! Maker, what a bloody mess!"

The former commander proceeded without a word. He'd rather not let his "guide" further into his life at the moment, especially with such a sensitive subject. Cullen merely let a few seconds pass, hoping his silence is confirmation and explanation enough, before drawing out his sword here and there to help the inquisitive man cut through an overgrown patch. Hours seemed to drift by without a word between the two. It was not long before he could tell from the shadows looming in the fore and the shift in the protruding sunlight's angle that night was about to fall. What he could see of the skies was a darker grey, and the temperature was anything but warm.

"We make camp here," the "guide's" voice rattled as he pointed his machete at the site of an old camp. Charred stones formed a circle before a hollowed tree. Indentations by its roots indicated frequent guests.

Perhaps this "guide" was truly a guide? Questions always popped up, but Cullen never cared to answer them. He shrugged his shoulders in assent and found a cozy root to stiffen his back. With the creak of his bones, he lowered himself and stretched out his aching calves while the "guide" rubbed cinders to start a small fire. Sitting down with his leather quilt and canvas breeches was definitely easier than the metal shell he once called his armor. It was liberating to blend as an anonymous hunter or mercenary here and there, and it seemed to suit the foliage he often frequented as a sell sword.

"Drink?" the "guide" produced a water cloth from his pack. Cullen gently shook his head and revealed a flask hanging from his waist belt. In the past and as a good chantry boy, Cullen never really liked drinking alcohol or strong spirits. His work was often enough, and duty served a greater pleasure. Yes, a beer here or there was necessary for the tavern gallivanting and dalliances he had from Ferelden, to Kirkwall, and then to Skyhold. Then there were those years... those sweet years with the Inquisition –no, with the Inquisitor. Hardly any drug or draught could have tempted him from those quiet days. Now, with lyrium added in and now missing in the picture, whiskey would have to do. Cullen popped the cap off and raised the flask in some half-arsed attempt to toast one successful day of intrepid trekking before taking a long and thirsty gulp of his drink. Shadows grew and light gave way to a dark blue peering through the leaves of their roof-like trees. Branches encircled the darkness, and for once Cullen felt somewhat of an entrapment. Across from him and sitting low by the fire, "the guide" hummed an old tune, unfamiliar and incoherent to the former commander. Cullen was more fatigued than he realized. Almost twelve hours of unceasing hiking against jutting roots, pesky leaves as big as a druffalo, and the unpleasant company of this backwoods hireling left him exhausted with it all. Not to mention, there was the ringing pang of his thirst for lyrium.

"What was she like?" the guide asked, breaking out of his tune.

Cullen peered up from his drink, as if woken up from slumber. "What was _who_ like?"

"The inquisitor!" the old urchin exclaimed. A sly smile crept on his lips, and the "guide" revealed a gap or two in between the yellow specks that glimmered in his mouth. Cullen cringed a bit at his smile, looking away from both questioner and question. The "guide" relaxed a bit from his position by the fire and sprawled on the pillowy grass. "Savior of Thedas! bringer of order! And a Dalish elf, no less! You were with the Inquisition! You must have seen her!"

The aged Ferelden immediately regretted not denying his associations with the once powerful faction. He did not mind answering as much as he minded being reminded. The guide's dreamy descriptions conjured painful memories and long buried images. Cullen's mind raced from scenes of snowy peaks, far across old stone and battlements, the image of a woman, her eyes shaped like almond, skin a soft bronze... _C'mon, you need a break!_ He felt dizzy at the resurgence of a million shards of memories piecing themselves together. They brought back senses and sensations, and Cullen did not realize that he lost himself in pensive remembrance of how sweet her hair smelled.

"Well?" the crone pulled Cullen back from his depths. Though he was annoyed at first, the ex-templar was a little grateful. He could have easily lost himself again to the intoxicating allure of old times past – gone but hardly forgotten.

Cullen faced away into the shadows of the forest around them. He frowned, curling the old and unhealed scar on his upper lip. "I was nothing but a foot soldier. I never saw her." "The guide" said nothing in response. He understood in his own way when someone really insisted on keeping things secret. So he turned and resumed his dissonant tune by the fire.

Cullen let the heady drink and the white noise of his guide's singing lull him into a stupor, and before long the clutches of dark and quiet sleep enveloped him.

Black night came, and his consciousness melted. The arbor wilds disappeared, and the former commander was left with nothing but a slight whisper. No, whispers. Whispers emerged as if from a door. He sat in a dark room, lost in thought, and sweating from anxiety. The dreaded feeling swept him again: the feeling of waiting for good news that will never come. Suddenly, a brightly lit hearth cast long shadows around him. The flames dove into their own little sparks, dancing in circles and painting an illusion of a ritual consuming his gaze. In the distance, a door blasted open. A woman's screams echoed through the chamber. Yet it sounded muffled, as if trapped in a jar but somehow ringing in his ears. "It's going to be alright my lady!" another muffled call, an old woman assuaging the fears of someone in pain. Cullen rose from his seat, turning every which way, looking for the door that led to the room, that led to _her_. He started to run, running, running... Where was she? He looked around, but it was all so dark.

He followed the sounds of her screaming. He could feel her writhing in agony. "Someone please!" she called out, crying and shrieking. His heart wrenched. Cullen wanted nothing more than to find her, hold her, and save her from it all.

"Hold her still!" commanded a voice. A man, an elf... A bright green light flashed all around Cullen, and he could hear the quiet explosion of magic pervade the room. More hushed whispers emanated from all over him, but he could not find where they were. Cullen kept running until finally, he reached the end of a corridor. The darkness gave way to wooden walls dimly lit by the dying embers of the hearth. At the end of it was a door, guarded by a familiar figure, tall, slender, bald...

"Solas!" he called out. But the elf merely turned away without a word, and as he opened the door before him, more screaming came from the room.

"I don't want to die!" a woman cried out. It was a familiar plea for help. Cullen immediately bolted for the door. She was waiting for him, calling him. He ran and ran, but like before he never seemed to get closer. Each second played out like eternity, lost in a void. Solas was forever there, turning his back and walking into the room, but her muffled screaming pierced his ears. She wanted him there. Cullen gave up, panting, and unsure of what to do. The walls receded, dissolving into the black shadow once more.

"Cullen?" a soft whimper came from behind him. The ex-templar turned around. Lavellan lay there, trapped in sheets of white on a creaking wooden bed. She lay naked with her lower half drenched in a pool of red seeping into the straw. She had been so weak in that moment. Cullen thought of the hand he placed on her neck trying to feel for her pulse – so faint, almost like a whisper. Her lips were parted open, as if to speak and plead with him to save her life, but even then she had no energy. Solas stood on the other side of the bed, watching them with pity.

"I am sorry, Da'len," he whispered, looking longingly at his bloodied and pained friend.

Cullen cried out in anger, "Save her!" But the screaming reached neither of them. Lavellan, the once formidable Inquisitor, lay there with her body cold as stone. Her legs were parted, letting the blood pour from between her thighs. Every second or two, her stomach would jerk upwards, hinting at the last signs of a struggle for her life. From her throat came a terrible cry, piercing and shrieking. Cullen grabbed hold of her one hand, feeling deathly cold to the touch. Where her complexion, formerly sun burnt, had a deathly pallor, he could see her varicose veins turn into a corrupting black, lining her skin. Her other arm wasn't even there. It was empty, missing, but from the stump of her left arm came the most blighted part of her body. More varicose veins protruded there, and even her face turned blue from the corruption her body suffered. The commander looked at her, his wife, his lover, the mother of his child, pleading with her to stay, to endure the pain and not let go of him. But her eyes were beginning to lose their gleam, seeming hollow and empty. Hands from cloaked figures around them poured more water and sheets on her abdomen, trying to stop the bleeding flooding her thighs.

Solas waved a hand, like a god orchestrating the macabre scene of events. With the gesture, Lavellan let out another cry, louder and more harrowing than the previous ones. She arched her back, rising from the depths of the sheets. Another pouring of blood seeped out from between her legs, and Cullen – arrested by the tragic image – held onto her back and tried to embrace her. "No!" he shouted as if trying to wrest command from the elven mage standing before them. Lavellan's cry rang in his ears, embracing him, sheathing him like a slow and torturous song. Muffled in between the cacophony, the sound of a child, crying for its mother interlaced the melody.

Cullen woke to the splash of water, feeling frigid in an otherwise balmy evening. He scrambled for composure, rising from his hollow spot by the tree, soaked from both water and sweat. The "guide" stood before him, holding a small pail of water. "Keep it quiet!" he growled low and harshly.

The ex-templar balked at him bewildered. "Maker, what-!"

"Shush!" The "guide" eyed him menacingly. He raised his hood over and crouched low next to his patron. "Something's here with us, I can feel it... And your loud sleep talking doesn't help one bit!"

Sleep talking? Cullen's head rang with pain. His nightmares once more plunged him in that troubled state, where the waking world was constantly plagued by his irrepressible calls for help. A shudder went down his spine. He hadn't dreamt of that for months now. Then again, he had been keeping the warm company of prostitutes and tavern wenches for months as well. Those temptations were ones he never had a preference before, but in his old and lonely age, when they came flocking to him anyway, it was the best he could do, like a palliative for a lingering migraine. Tonight, it seemed, without a warm body or the comfort of lyrium, his dreams wandered to memories he fought so hard to forget. After reorienting himself, Cullen looked around and scanned the vicinity. He saw nothing. Then again, it was too dark to see _anything_. Yet the "guide" still looked around suspiciously, as if tracking a skulking shadow or two as it closed in on them.

Moments passed, and Cullen could indeed feel some cold presence lingering around them. His right hand reached for the pommel of his sword, waiting for the ambush with his readied steel. Yet when nothing happened, the two wary humans relaxed a little. Perhaps it was an animal, harmless and curious? Cullen leaned back against the root he was sleeping on, ready to resume a sleepless night. The "guide" raised himself from his crouch as he felt the threat waned.

Then, like a flash of lighting, a shadow with a piercing cry jumped from a distance. Its presence whistled past Cullen and pounced on the "guide." It carried him yards away from their campfire, the "guide's" screaming filling the air. "MAKER!"

Cullen could hear guts wringing out, and he could only imagine the blood that now quenched the ancient ground's thirst. The seasoned soldier ducked low and took cover underneath the jutting roots, taking refuge in the foliage itself. The "guide" stopped screaming, or perhaps the shadow had succeeded in killing him and thus concluding the crone's death rattle. From underneath the bush, Cullen panted harshly. He tried hard to steady his breath, blood rushing up and down his temples. Cold sweat like beads slithering down his cheeks. He hadn't felt this afraid in ages. For a while, nothing but the hum of crickets pervaded the darkness around him. Was he going to die right then and there? How could he fight a predator he could barely even see? And a man supposedly experienced in navigating the depths of these woods was effortlessly devoured. What was he to do? His heart pounded against his rib cage, fighting for survival. But Cullen already felt himself losing hope. The shadow moved quicker than anything he had seen – and he has seen a lot of things. Compounded with his weariness, his aging body, the cracks in his spine... He found himself muttering the chant of light, as if saying his last holy rite.

His prayer must have been loud, indeed loud enough, because he felt an icy grip encircle his ankle, and a commanding tug pulled him from underneath the root. Cullen instinctively grasped his sword and unsheathed it. He swung wildly in the dark, hoping to break free. A piercing banshee's cry echoed in the forest. The ex-templar was blind. No matter how swiftly and how wide he swung his sword, it was as if he was merely slashing against the air. Whatever it was that gripped him blended with the night. Is this death? Cold and disquieting darkness? In the slow seconds between the present and the impending moment, he felt quiet reassurance. He thought once more of his Inquisitor, and death suddenly seemed a bittersweet end. Cullen bit his lip, ready to meet his fate. He roared at the top of his lungs and lunged from his overturned position.

Somehow, it worked. He felt his blade pierce something coarse and thick, like the trunk of a moving tree. A shrill cry came from beside him, and it let go of his ankle as soon as he pulled back his sword. With a thud, he landed on his back. Cullen cried out in pain, groaning and absolutely regretting whatever he just did. Though he was gripped with fear, the seasoned warrior had met death so many times before. He braced himself and rose from the ground. If he was going to die, he was going to make the shadow fight for it.

Luminous green eyes lit up before him. He could see no figure, but he understood now what he faced, a demon of some kind. It growled prowling in the shadows, ready to pounce at him as it recovered from his strike. Cullen glared at it like a wounded lion. He felt the heat of countless battles give his arms the power to wield his blade and the courage to die fighting. Yet before he could anticipate its next move, the green eyes seemed to dissolve in the space, and he felt a whistling sound shoot across his ears. Recognizing the sound from its earlier attack on his guide, Cullen sidestepped, hoping to escape its grasp, but it was too late. He let out a sharp cry, feeling something impale his right shoulder, dragging his body a distance from where he stood. The demon was too fast for him.

Cullen swung his sword once more, and he could hear the blade tearing off a limb. The slash seemed to release his shoulder from the piercing arm of the demon, for he fell back down on his knees on the soft and dewy grass. "Is that all you got?" he roared, taunting the formless monster. The shadow let out another war cry, shrill and dissonant in the cold night air. Cullen winced at the sound of hearing it. His left shoulder hurt even more as he felt it go cold with the loss of blood. "Come at me!" he yelled, clenching and baring his teeth at his foe. The warrior felt another whistling blow past his ear, and in an instant he knew that his luck might yet run out. He positioned his sword in front of him, ready to impale the monster back should it catch him with its fangs this time. But as soon as he felt the darkness encroach, gripping him with its frigid grasp, he saw an arrow fly from the corner of his eye. It gleamed blue, as if breaking a sound barrier as it shot from the distance. The demon let out another shrill cry, but this time, he could see the arrow glowing against its head as it wriggled in agony. Another gleam flew from the corner of his eye, and a second arrow pierced the shadow, this time in its snout. The trees shook with its screams, and the demon seemed to recede with the darkness. The arrowheads glowed blue, as if warding off the spirit from the veil. Starlight was returning to the grove, and Cullen could feel warmth around him again.

When the monster let out its final cry and dissolved into the shadows, Cullen dropped his sword in fatigue. His right shoulder no longer pained him. In fact, he no longer had any feeling in it. He looked down on his arm, ruby streams flowing from the wound. His head felt faint, and he was losing more and more control of his vision. Weakened, his knees fell as his left hand tried to put pressure and cover the wound on his shoulder. The warrior grinded his teeth and was somewhat disappointed. If he were to die, he would have preferred a brutal death fighting a demon rather than bleeding out in the middle of nowhere.

"Atish'all vallem," a woman called out from the darkness. Cullen looked across from him, his eyes searching for the new presence. He tried to look for his sword, but it was too dark, his vision was too hazy, and his arms were too weak. Could it be another foe?

Moonlight shone on the forest floor, as if to announce the new entity as his daring savior. A small, lithe woman approached. In the darkness, Cullen could not make out the lines or the features. A groan rumbled from his throat as he felt a hot, piercing sensation run down his right arm. "Stay where you are," he commanded with a low growl. When the wounded man fell on his side in agony over the pain his shoulder was giving him, she gave a startled gasp. He oculd make out her shadow darting over to him. He was confused to say the least. He hadn't expected anyone there.

Cullen merely breathed, panting, waiting for the revelation before he could bleed out and finally join his late wife. A smirk lifted the scar from his upper lip. "I would thank you," he said grasping for the last straws of his life, "But I'm afraid you're too late." The woman lifted him up from his neck, placing his head on her lap. He felt something soft and cool press against his wound. The former commander peered up above him, trying to scan her face, but somehow it was too dark. He tried to make out her eyes, to outline where her nose or lips were. For a second, he could've sworn – but it was a bit blurry in the darkness, one had to admit – she looked a little bit like her. With those thoughts, darkness enveloped him once more, and his body limped to the ground. He could feel warm hands press against his wound, the lifting of a burden, like floating in a river.


	2. Chapter 2

Note on the Elven: I used a translator from the website lingojam /ElvenDAI to write the Elven in this story. The song Lúthien sings is from Dragon Age Origins, titled "I am the One." Lúthien's name is from a different universe, that of J.R.R. Tolkien's _The Silmarillion_. I do not own any of these aforementioned intellectual properties.

* * *

The soothing cackle of a fire snapped Cullen back into a waking state. The soft sounds of a woman screaming in his ear, the gentle touch of a barely warm hand, and the sight of blood whirled in his vision before he could snap back up and gather his senses. His eyes agape and his lungs contracting and expanding with the vigor of a newborn infant, the surroundings were so unfamiliar. Rather than the foliage and lush greenery of the camp they had set, he instead only saw dark and musty walls. The smell of mold lingered in the air, and he could trace lines of silvery spider webs woven into the room's dilapidated corners. "Hello?" he called out, voice raspy and groggy. Cullen instinctively tried to raise his right hand in order to rub the slumber from his eyes, but before he could lift a finger, just the thought shot pain through his arm. He felt some warm liquid seep in the cloth over his shoulder. He looked from underneath him and saw bandages wrapping the injured shoulder. The image of a shadow, the whistling against his ear – it was as if the scene was flashing in his mind once more. He thought of the "guide"... the poor guide! How did he not know of the dangers lurking in the ancient forest?

Footsteps emerged from one end of the room. Cullen noticed that the chamber led out through an opening. It was large, as if it once held gates rather than doors. The moonlight aided the dying fire, and from it Cullen could see murals and barely faded runes etched on the walls. They were in an Elvhen ruin. From the opening, another shadow – a silhouette of a woman – loomed. He tried to raise himself up, wanting to confirm the sneaking suspicion he had before passing out. When the woman stood before his lying figure, almost towering against him, she uttered a phrase he could barely understand, much less comprehend. "Come again?" he blurted out, still lost in a daze.

Cullen saw her body crouch down, lowering herself to her knees. He could see from her legs that her skin was a tint of soft copper, bronze and kissed by the sun. Her dark hair cascaded from her shoulders over to him as her faced hovered over his injury. She smiled, seeing how inquisitive and energized he already was. She repeated what she had said before, "Souver'inan isala hamin."

The lethargic invalid merely shook his head to gesture incomprehension. "I'm afraid I don't speak Elven." He saw that her lips curled into a frown. Perhaps she too was frustrated that neither of them shared a language. He thought hard of the Dalish phrases Lavellan taught him in their years together. Now he absolutely regrets not having pressured her to teach him more. Cullen swallowed, somewhat nervous. "Ma serannas," he managed. In the back of his mind, he hoped he rolled his "r" adequately. That was always Lavellan's criticism for him. Yet he was relieved that he remembered (did he?) the phrase for "Thank you." It was the least he could do if she had indeed been his rescuer.

A gentle laugh emanated from her lips, suggesting she knew he had just spoken all he knew of Elven. Cullen blushed. A mix of nervousness and frustration that he was now faced with a stranger in parts unknown. His eyes lingered over her face, somewhat captivated. Indeed, her face was a perfectly rounded, oval shape. No blemish or scar marred her skin. And something he instantly liked about her, something that he may have guiltily projected onto her, were her almond-shaped eyes. She could have been different in every possible respect, but those kind eyes mirrored a woman he once loved and knew. It was not something many of the Elves shared, but somehow this savior of his had it. Her eyes were small, slanted, and it endeared her to him for having borne a semblance to Lavellan. The stranger's hair was a mass of black waves, gleaming against the light of the embers before them. She had very dark complexion and a small nose. Not to mention, her ears were smaller. Pointed still, but smaller. He wondered why these features were so distinctly different for her. He scanned her face for more clues – friend or foe? Another thing that separated her from other elves: the absence of the markings. Lavellan had called it vallaslin – slave markings, or at least that was what Solas called them in a brutal revelation to the Inquisitor. Cullen remembered the night the Inquisitor came running to his arms, shedding some hardly suppressed tears. She had just returned from a private conversation with Solas, the apostate mage who had just revealed to her the truth behind the vallaslin. A feeling of disgust reeled in him. He never trusted Solas, but he also never distrusted him. In their time in Skyhold, Cullen always noted, with a bit of unconscious jealousy, that the mage's eyes were always glued to the Inquisitor, and that he never held back in his gracious compliments over her decisions and actions. Cullen had also been aware at the time that the mage often dreamt with Lavellan – _his_ lover – in the Fade. That fact was always a sore spot for Cullen, and he never really forgave her for keeping that secret.

As the elf turned to move away, his mind turned to speculation. City elves did not have vallaslin for reasons he knew well, but he could only assume this woman was Dalish. Why else was she here in the arborous Dales? The tattoo indicated a communal identity and their obeisance to the past. If a woman like her only spoke Elven, and if she clung to her past enough that she dwells in their ruins, would she also not honor their markings?

Cullen started to wonder where they were and what his strange savior was doing in the area where they had been attacked. An elf, absent of vallaslin, and unused to the common tongue, had just rescued him from a demon he never before encountered (and he has had many encounters with demons!). She must have noticed how he gawked at her, for her shoulders shook with a suppressed laughter and rouge tinted her cheeks.

The stranger placed a hand on her chest, gesturing him to look at her. She said in a slow and hushed tone, "Lúthien."

"Lúthien?" he repeated. Her eyes gleamed and she nodded her head with utmost force. Cullen noted her exaggerated movements. She was trying to get him to say her name. He raised his left arm and pointed at her. "Lúthien?" he mimed this time indicating he understood her. Lúthien let out a gasp and her lips formed a widened smile. Cullen smiled back, happy to have at least established that much. He debated with himself about telling her _his_ name. Is that dangerous? He wondered what kind of threat that would pose, if any. It wasn't like he was a high-ranking official. He was a sell sword now, and the only reason why he took up aliases was to shake off the past, not to protect any well-guarded secret.

The injured man sighed and placed his left hand onto his chest, mimicking her movements. "Cullen," he said with a hoarse voice. A smirk crept up, and his scar rose in a sly side smile. The whole situation was hilarious to him. Here he was, rescued by an enigmatic and beautiful young woman, and they were gesturing like babbling idiots for lack of a shared language.

Either out of deference to his actions or some odd sign of courtesy, Lúthien raised her arm and pointed at him. "Cullen," she declared. Cullen nodded his head and rested his back on the cot. He felt another pang of prickling little knives spear through his shoulder. He winced as his left arm immediately shot up to grab hold of the wound. He grinded his teeth, somewhat unused to the pain. Something burned in his arm, searing his skin, poison? Lúthien cast a concerned glance over her shemlem. She quickly took out an herb, a root Cullen did not recognize, and mashed it to little pieces with her knife. She then kneaded it into a paste before hurriedly lifting Cullen's badges and lathing the mixture onto his open wound. Cullen screamed, his body jerking at the tension. He has had similar injuries before from previous battles. Only poison could cause such a lingering and burning pain. When Lúthien applied a second batch of the paste to his shoulder, he felt the burning sensations touch his collarbone. He prayed to the Maker that she knew what was plaguing him.

Lúthien cooed his cries with soothing whispers. The sounds coming from her lips waved in soft intonations – like a song. Sweet to the ear and numbing to the agony burning his skin, Cullen found himself relaxing. He did not even realize in that interval, she had pulled out needle and thread, dexterously stitching together the open wound as she sang her siren's song. It sounded familiar to Cullen somehow, but he knew he never heard it. The words – foreign and beautiful – tapped into a distant memory he somehow shared, maybe in a passing dream.

"Heruamin lotirien..." her voice echoed in the chamber, soaring sonorously through the night. Her tongue sounded out the Elven like soft silk. Cullen could barely understand, could barely grasp the consonances of her language. Some of the words slithered past his ears, escaping memory.

Lúthien's voice hummed out into the distance, "Ame amin... Halai lothi amin... Noamin Heruamin..." Watching her sing to him, a realization sank into Cullen. Despite how youthful she may have looked (he may have been fifteen years her senior) how innocent and milky her skin looked, there was something old – no, ageless, about her and how she sang. Even her eyes, which often met his in between her fiddling with the string weaving around his skin, held some untold sorrow. Like her melody, her gaze could not find translation. There was no translation, just images and emotions long lost to the world of the present. He noticed that her eyes were almost black, barely a hint of brown. It was as if he was actually staring into an abyss that held all the sorrows of the years foretold.

Sleep was creeping up his eyes again. It made Cullen feel listless, drunk in the tranquility of the moment. It was strange that, after years of vagrancy and avoiding all the comforts of his previous lives, he found sanity and peace out in the Arbor Wilds after having almost died. He looked again at Lúthien, clad in the soft leather armor of an agile hunter. So many questions darted back and forth, converging in his throat. He wanted to ask why she saved him, who she really was, and what was her interest in his survival. But he knew the futility of it all. They would not understand each other. They would not even be able to convey anything to each other. Any answers he wanted, he must consign himself to never knowing. He thought instead of his wound. How long would it take to heal? Would the poison leave him eventually? More thoughts of recovering and returning to Ferelden brought back the gnawing sensation from the back of his head. His hunger for Lyrium made his head throb.

As if sensing his distress, Lúthien placed a palm on top of his forehead. Cullen suddenly heard the sweet and quiet sound of a breeze, rolling waves... Her touch made the throbbing disappear. Was it magic? The biting sensation of withdrawal slowly went back into the recesses of his consciousness, and for a while, he saw nothing but a pink sunset off into the horizon. He was by an ocean, standing... where was he? When Lúthien removed her hand, he was brought back to the dark chamber of the ruin. The hearth no longer had a strong flame but embers of a dying light. His elf friend sat next to him, peering at him with impersonal curiosity. Cullen was bewildered by it all. "Are you a mage?" he asked, hoping she understood what it meant. Lúthien, however, was unresponsive. No change occurred in her expression. She stared at him like one would stare at a somewhat obnoxious puppy. Cullen sighed. There was no talking after all.

Again, Lúthien wrinkled her face in a way that showed she somehow could sense his discomfiture. She quickly wrapped up his wound with another bandage. Once her hands were freed, she folded her hands together, titled her head and laid it on her folded hands to gesture sleep. Cullen raised an eyebrow. "You want me to sleep? Sleep?" He mimed her as best as he could, mirroring her movement with his hands but only with one of his able hands. The cheery elf smiled and nodded her head once more in confirmation. But Cullen felt wide-awake. Yes he was tired, but only in the sense that his muscles were sore, and some numbed pain gnawed at him from both his head and shoulder. He closed his eyes nonetheless, showing respect to the woman who rescued him.

"Sleep," she uttered, emulating the word he himself sounded out just moments before. Cullen appreciated that she was actually trying to learn _his_ words, and then he wondered if he should not reciprocate. It would be helpful in the long run anyway. Closing his eyes, he remembered how Leliana, as their proficient spymaster, could translate and sometimes feign knowing other languages ranging from Qunari to the inflections of Dalish Elven. It served her well for it often fooled even the most cautious of agents. Cullen himself had no political or even professional reasons for learning, but it was important to Lavellan when she had been alive. Perhaps he should carry on the task he never quite accomplished. A yawn escaped his lips, somehow, and he could hear Lúthien shuffle from her spot as she rose. Her footsteps, light and dainty as she walked barefooted, receded into the ends of the chamber with the sounds eventually fading out upon her exit. In a moment, she disappeared, and Cullen was left with the soft red glow of burning ash.

Again in that same dark room. Cullen was sitting nervously on his seat, shifting all the while. His teeth clattered. They never made any noise. He never knew himself to be so nervous that his teeth made their own noise. A loose and golden strand escaped his formerly shaped coif, and with an irritated swipe of his hand, he held it back in place. The red lion's mane wrapped around his metal-encased shoulders started to stifle his breathing. Odd, he was always comfortable in armor. A lot of things started to feel new to him, tightening his skin to the point that he could not breathe.

A door burst open. From it emerged the healers – the blasted healers! Cullen immediately rose to his feet, making a beeline for the midwife among them. "How is she?"

The old woman cast him a nervous look. "She is well," she answered, but Cullen could sense unease. If Lavellan was fine now, she would not be fine in the future. The midwife noted his discerning glare, and so she continued in explanation, "She exerted herself. It makes sense. She's the Inquisitor after all! For the coming months, she will need bed rest, absolutely no movement." The commander nodded. He had never seen a pregnant woman bleed like that – before she was even showing! He swallowed a knot building up in this throat and looked to the room from which the group emerged.

"I will go see her," he announced. Inside the room, his wife was sitting up from her spot on the bed. Blankets and sheets coddled her in soft cotton. Cullen unwittingly smiled and was happy to see her awake and about. She was more than well. She was alive, and that meant more to him than anything. As soon as he approached her bedside, she gazed up at him with sleepless eyes. There was a wrinkle on her forehead, lines of worry that haunted her sleep.

"They said the baby is well," she said trying to be brave for him. "That's all that matters, right?" she said looking up at him.

Cullen knelt and took her hands into his. "You're all that matters. We will do whatever is best for you."

The timid elf sniffed as if stifling a sob. "This is the third time Cullen." They both sat there somewhat silent and dejected. Yet Cullen was still full of hope. It was difficult, yes. Some pregnancies are indeed difficult, but they can be strong and they can hold out. Six more months, and they will be a family. The scars of that day, the bleeding, the fainting, and all the sleepless worrying would be like a forgotten dream. Or at least, he hoped they would be a forgotten dream. Cullen looked at her lower lip, shaking and shuddering as Lavellan looked morosely at her belly. "I don't want to die," she whispered.

Cullen squeezed her hand. "You won't."

She shook her head, disbelieving him. "Solas came to me in my dreams..." The moment he heard the name, Cullen's brows furrowed in anger. Lavellan noticed this and tried to cut him off, "He knows the danger! He can save us."

"Us?!" Cullen retorted in fury. No one had seen the apostate mage since the sealing of the Breach. They were almost too happy to go on without his condescension and lamentations – a disparaging opinion Cullen guiltily bore. "He has no interest in _us_. He only has interest in _you_ , and he will do anything to-..."

"Please listen!" she pleaded with tears welling in her eyes. He had never seen her so frightened and so emotionally vulnerable. Through all the trials and tribulations Corypheus put them though, Lavellan had stood strong. Many believed her to be the Herald simply because of her decisive courage in a time of chaos. Yet now, at the brink of what she sensed to be her impending doom, she is cowering and looking to the shadows for answers. The commander rose and walked away from her, scoffing at the news. Of _course_ they still spoke in dreams. He felt a little hurt that even after declarations of love and a wedding, Lavellan still kept these secrets from him. It was like she was taking another lover, cuckolding him for qualities he lacked. Yet he also knew that she did not see it that way. She did not see visiting the Fade with her old friend like a lover's tryst to the wary templar. Deep down Cullen knew this too, and so he forgave her for it.

"We have to find him Cullen," she said as gently as she could. "He told me he has a way. It's the anchor... it's corrupting the baby. The magic is fighting the baby!"

Cullen retreated to a corner, his back facing his wife. Inside, he seethed in anger. "How does he even know you're pregnant? Or that you're... _we're_ having trouble?" His words barked at her, as if he was yelling them to her face across the distance widening between them.

Lavellan's skin went white as snow. He had caught her in a web, and so the truth simmered out in their most desperate moments. Her husband realized that she did not frequent the Fade once or twice. She had visited often, and she spent all those nights dreaming with her lost friend – a friend he utterly distrusted and despised for reasons she cannot bring herself to understand. "He can sense it Cullen. He's looked into the Beyond. He saw me die, and he said he can save me."

Cullen's eyes snapped open to golden light bathing the dusty room. He just had the strangest dream. It was strange in that it did not feel like a dream. It was not at all a dream. No, it felt like he relived a memory, word for word and action for action... He felt that he really did touch her, that she was alive, and that he was there in that present moment ready to argue against her desperate logic. Strangely enough, he hadn't even thought of or thought to remember that particular instance since it occurred. The months that followed were indeed difficult. He recalled times when they would not speak to each other, when they would let silence fill the nauseating pang tugging at their heart strings. Yet there were also times of hope, Cullen remembered. He remembered watching her belly grow. It was for him proof of a life beyond them. He thought of the times they both fantasized about names, whether or not it would be a boy or a girl, or what features of theirs it would take after. In times when they would bicker or feel bitterness, there would inevitably follow a time when they reconciled without any new words or promises. No poultice necessary. Their wounds would mend, and they knew they were happy together.

He rose up from his cot when he realized the burning sensation on his shoulder was gone, though it hurt the moment he put weight on it. Whatever Lúthien did, she at least healed him of the poison. Perhaps the dream was also her doing? Even his previous time at the Arbor Wilds lacked whatever elements of the fantastical he was experiencing. Granted, he was at war, and there were many other souls for the forest's magic to work itself on.

A growl rang from his gut, knotting painfully in hunger. Yes, he was hungry. Cullen had not eaten since the swig of whiskey he had the night of the attack. He crawled to the pack across from him close to the fire with one arm for support. Cullen noticed, quite gratefully, that his right arm hung in a swing cloth, supporting him so that the shoulder would not have to pivot or hold the weight of his arm too much. Daring rescuer, nurse, and songstress – Lúthien was an inexplicable force of nature. As he rummaged through the sack, finding nothing but a quiver of arrows, twine, some beads, and thread, he thought about what circumstances had brought her to that specific grove in an otherwise limitless forest. He thought of her decision to rescue him, to drag his bleeding and limp body to the ruins wherein he coalesced, and her effort thus far in making sure he healed. It was all too convenient to be mere coincidence. She must have known of his presence in the Dales, stalked him like the huntress she is, and retrieved him the moment she thought his life was actually in danger. But what could she have wanted? As an elf unversed in the common tongue, she would have little to no knowledge of the politics or even of the history of humans. Or at least, he would assume it would be impossible for her to know its details, its stories, and its figures.

His mind wandered to the "guide," whose name regrettably escaped his memory (if he had even known it). He thought of the horrid death that befell the poor man, whose dabbling in the Arbor Wilds did not prepare him for whatever dwelled in its abyss. In a bout of compassion, Cullen sat himself up, straightening his back, and lowered his head. He clenched his left hand into a fist and pressed it against his bowed head. Cullen regretted that the "guide" died undoubtedly because of him. He did not wish it of course, but if he had not showed up in that tavern with the bag of coin, the "guide" may have lived several more years before encountering such a deadly monster in the wilds. It was a grim thought, and Cullen was not so cynical as to altogether disavow his complicity in the loss of a life. "Many are those who wander in sin," his voice shook with the memory of the chant. Since Lavellan's death, he had not prayed, but somehow he found strength in the words – words that were indelibly etched into his soul. "...despairing that they are lost forever." The words flowed from him. It was a verse of honey, delectable and somehow satiating in this hour of loss and injury. He continued the chant word for word, thinking of the few moments he remembered of the guide. He hoped the prayer would guide his soul beyond the Fade and be at peace with the Maker.

As he concluded the chant, he heard light footsteps ascend stony steps. Cullen quickly turned around. He saw Lúthien standing in the tomb's opening. On one hand she carried her longbow, gilded in a limpid metal unlike anything Cullen had seen before. On the other, she held a string tying together dead and bled out fennec. He saw no blood taint her accouterment, neither did she exhibit any signs that she had just spent hours in the wilds, hunting and stalking the treacherous vines.

"Good morning," Cullen said in an unexpectedly tuneful manner. He timidly waved his left hand, hoping to show that he was merely greeting her. She smiled and nodded. Was this to be their fate? To politely smile and nod when no one can understand each other? He had hoped not, but at least she brought food. Cullen resigned himself to being grateful for the small things, however basic to survival they are. Lúthien walked across the room near the fire. There was a large cauldron of water, which she effortlessly lifted (with the rest of her items in tow) atop the fire. While it was boiling, she put her bow down and unsheathed a knife hidden in her waistcloth. Cullen watched her every movement, seeing how natural it was for this otherwise graceful elf to partake in the less delicate matters of life. She set the fennecs down before taking one and held it against a wooden board next to her pack. In one swift movement, she skinned its fur, flaying it until the bloody muscles revealed themselves.

Cullen felt nauseated as soon as the smell hit him. Though he never found the sight of corpses or blood particularly unpleasant, he somehow was too weak to stomach both sight and smell of animal slaughter. He grabbed hold of himself before slowly crawling back to his cot. He did not realize until he hit the soft fabric of his blanket that he was _very_ tired. Though only his shoulder was injured, his legs felt wobbly, and his neck was stiffer than a wooden plank. If the shadow demon did indeed poison him, it must have worked his body to death. He wondered at how Lúthien was able to heal him from it. Looking at her, he admired how swiftly and gracefully she was able to skin four dead animals. All the while, neither blood nor guts tarnished her glowing figure. The scene was bizarre to him, like watching a wood nymph partake in unsavory survival.

"Sleep?"

Cullen's eyes shot up to her. He balked that she would suggest it again, given how much sleep he felt like he already had. Lúthien looked back up at him while maintaining her motions of flaying the carcasses. She smiled, somewhat awkwardly. It was apparent that she actually wanted to convey something else.

"Sleep, uh..." She let go of the animal and her knife, and she looked around her for ways to hint to him her meaning. She resumed the same motions she used before to indicate sleeping, but this time she appended melodious humming. Her lips beamed in an exaggerated smile as she feigned what he might have looked like smiling in his sleep. When she was done with the pantomime, she stared at him wide-eyed and waiting for a response.

Cullen let out a chuckle at her ridiculous display. He regretted not having pursued the theatrical arts as a profession for he found himself ill equipped. "You want to know if I slept well?"

Lúthien obviously could not answer the question, and he felt more ridiculous than she for assuming she could guess his meaning from his own garble of sounds. Resuming her silence, she gazed back, doe-eyed and somewhat innocent.

"Yes," he answered finally. He nodded his head to make sure she understood him.

"Yes!" she repeated with gregarious excitement. A giggle rumbled from her lips, pink as a petal. Cullen envied her for her energy, her ability to smile like that. It was her infectious capacity for enjoying life a little.

The middle-aged man couldn't help but to reach for the back of his neck, scratching that tingling sensation whenever he felt flustered or nervous. When his fingers grazed against his cheek, he noted that the stubble, previously prickly and short, was longer. There was a softness that indicated he had not a shadow of facial hair but an incipient beard. Cullen blushed thinking of how haggard he must look. When he was younger, his beard would just be a light brown shade, but at forty-one, he could not help but feel slightly ashamed of the grey whiskers lining his gaunt face. All those long working hours, those days when he stood vigil, and the scars he bore in battle have finally caught up to him as an old and greying man.

"How long did I sleep?" he asked incredulous as his hands felt the length of his new beard.

Lúthien did not answer, but she merely continued to flay the other animal corpses. It seemed she made a point not to answer or respond to any question that she could not possibly understand. Understanding her reasons, Cullen just fell silent. He was not about to commit to the same pantomime act she was more willing to practice. When she flayed the last fur with one swing of her knife, Lúthien stood up and dropped the animals into the boiling cauldron. She produced a wooden spatula from her pack and began to stir, seasoning it occasionally with some herbs and spices she safely stored in her waist belt. The aroma permeated the air, and soon Cullen felt hunger overwhelm him. Had it been days since his last shave? His last meal? The confusion discombobulated him, and he wished someone who spoke his language could just sing to him the answers to his prayers.

After moments of stirring and seasoning, Lúthien left the cauldron alone to simmer in its heat. She left the fire and paced to Cullen, who resumed lying listless in his cot. She laid a hand on his forehead, feeling for his temperature. Cullen noticed that her eyes were intent, focused on her actions. She firmly pressed against his injured shoulder, making him wince and push against her a little, but the elf did not mind. She seemed satisfied and merely nodded. Lúthien caught Cullen's left hand playing with the length of his beard. He was clearly bothered by it. Sitting there, hovering over his face, Cullen could feel her eyes trace the outline of his facial hair. The scar on his lip twitched, feeling nervous as he was put quite blatantly under the younger woman's greedy gaze. It was as if she was drinking up every detail of his expression, his beard, and his blemishes. He did not know what to make of it all, and he merely receded into his cot to cut the tension of their awkwardness. Neither of them said anything.

Lúthien subsequently rose from her spot and jogged out of the tomb without a word. Cullen found her peculiar to say the least. Without words to foster understanding, their gestures came off as eccentricities, baffling and inexplicable. Ages passed, and Cullen was about to give in to his undiminished fatigue and once more close his eyes, feeling somewhat relaxed and unafraid of the dreams that may come. Yet he heard another sound of shuffling feet, and then Lúthien returned to the opening and resumed her spot on their stony stage. She held her knife out, cleaned and damp from having been soaked in a nearby river. On the other, she held a cloth mashed with what looked like elfroot. The paste appeared like pearly foam, soft and bubbly. Cullen sat up startled. He was a little jarred by what he thought she was planning on doing. The elf in her nymph-like esprit scurried towards with him. She had that same widened smile from this morning. It displayed the fullness of her teeth and the two dimples bordering the corners of her mouth. She held out the blade to him as she smothered her other hand with the lather.

"Oh, well I..." He was ready to snatch the blade from her hand and take the lather politely. Shaving was intimate. However naked, injured, or vulnerable he was to her in his unconsciousness, shaving was something he could still do. It had an aesthetic, a certain feel. Cullen could not simply allow someone he never met before decide this for him.

Yet Lúthien proceeded unimpeded. She ungracefully smothered Cullen's beard with the lather, massaging his cheeks and getting it all over his face. Cullen, who was too weak and too slow for her, simply sat helpless in his cot as she hovered over him, nose-to-nose, kneading his face with some foamy concoction.

"Hey now!" he yelled. "I can shave myself. Wait, Lúthien!" His left arm shot up to grab her wrist holding the knife.

" _Mana_ ," she protested with a sly chortle.

Cullen himself could not suppress his laughter. Her giggling was as infectious, and he found the whole idea a little too absurd. He found a little bit of the foam fell on her nose, a little button pressed between her rounded cheeks. Looking at her eyes, he still found that muted sadness welling in her iris, but light beamed from it as well. Her skin was less bronze and more golden basking in the sunlight. A slight breeze twirled the waves of her hair around her face, hitting a bit of the foam lathered on both her hands and his cheeks. Like black silk, her hair draped the small frame of her face, making those almond eyes glimmer in the sunlight. She continued laughing while he held on to her. The warrior was unsure of whether or not he could let go without suffering a close shave. Cullen caught the scent of honey suckle when she shifted her thighs to face him. The heat rushed from his stomach, and he was wondering what in the world he was doing with her. Lúthien truly was a wood nymph, those magical creatures of Ferelden bedtime stories. She belonged to the woods, and she lived and breathed its environment. Wayward hunters such as he were merely lost in their song.

"What does that mean? _Mana_?" he asked, finally letting go of her wrist when the pain on his shoulder returned.

Her laughter fizzled in the air with his question. He could tell from her dumbfounded look that she knew what he asked, but perhaps she had trouble finding a way to explain it. She wrinkled her nose and sat further back from him as she pondered a solution to the problem. Cullen used the distraction to whisk the knife away from her, thankful he did not have to suffer a potentially horrendous shave.

Lúthien gave him a chiding look. "Mana!" she protested again. This time, she raised both her arms and crossed them, making an x-shape with her limbs. Then she vigorously shook her head sideways.

"Stop? Does it mean stop?" Cullen asked instinctively.

Lúthien nodded her head, full of pride at his adept guessing. "Yes!" she chimed, her voice soft like a cat's purring. Cullen found it surprising if not sweet that she made so much effort to repeat and remember words he himself was unintentionally teaching her. He found her enthusiasm somewhat magnetic.

"You want me to stop holding you back? You really want to shave my beard?" He knew she probably did not catch any of his meaning, so as he spoke he gestured with his good hand the act of shaving, as if he was holding an invisible knife to his throat.

The nymph-like elf nodded her head with impassioned swaying. "Yes!" her exclamation resounding with triumph.

Cullen shrugged, unsure how not to disappoint her with a refusal. He sat up straight from his cot, wincing slightly at having to adjust his shoulder. Bestowed with a new responsibility, Lúthien licked her lips, biting the bottom one with her teeth to convey full concentration. With so much effort imprinted on her face, Cullen almost forgot that she had just hunted and skinned woodland creatures, and the night before, she took down an amorphous predator with two shots from her bow. She was more than capable of handling a knife to his face. The fact that she knew to make the lather meant she has seen a man shave, or that she herself shaved a man's beard before. The thought dawned on him, and it gave him a knot in his stomach. He couldn't imagine her this close or intimate with another. The thought went further into the back of his mind, unwanted and undesirable. The older man sat there with unshakeable jealousy, stony silent as Lúthien smoothly edged away the foam, revealing a clean-shaven cheek upon one sweep of her knife.

Cullen was so embarrassed of himself. He could not believe the emotions surging in him, this unwarranted jealousy over a potentially non-existent past of hers. More problematically, he could not quite pinpoint what it is that magnetized him to her, or why he was letting her so close to him. Without a shared language, she managed to tear down some of his self-imposed barriers. He told her his real name and shared brief moments of mirth. These were barriers he used to push away his closest and oldest friends. Had he a soft spot for young and dainty Elven women? His cheeks blushed a sanguine red. He thought himself lecherous for it. How could he reduce Lúthien, his intrepid savior and nurse as nothing other than an object of some baseless fetish? To even think of Lavellan in that same way... The shame silenced whatever new words he wanted to share with her.

"Ahn ame del?" she asked, her ears perking up. Although he hadn't said anything, Lúthien seemed keen enough on his body language. She noticed how slouched he was and how the perked corner of his lips curved to a frown. Her brows furrowed from concern as she wiped the edge of the knife across one last strip of foam, thereby completing the shave.

Cullen ignored her question though he had a feeling what she was asking. His left hand felt for his cheeks, feeling slight stubble despite the overall smooth surface. She shaved him clean. He smiled sheepishly as he averted his eyes from hers. The self-defeating thoughts about his own possibly malicious thoughts – perverse and somewhat thrilled by her interest in him – prevented him from saying another word.

Lúthien's sad eyes radiated at that moment, as if _she_ was thankful he had let her get so close, to have let her take care of him in his hour of need. This strange woman, whom he spent very little time with in consciousness, pulled him in with her sad smile. She bit her lip somewhat before exclaiming with more excitement, "Cullen!"

Cullen jumped at hearing his name. In a matter of seconds, she rose in aery flight back to the cauldron. Lúthien squealed in impish delight upon lifting the lid and smelling the aroma of freshly made stew. She hurriedly scooped a bit into one bowl, filling it to the brim, before carefully ambling back to Cullen's side. He noticed that when she walked, she didn't really walk. No, her footsteps were like a dancer's steps. He could see her landing with pointed toes with the ball of her foot always hovering in the air. It looked to be an uncomfortable yet somehow graceful way of walking. The stance reminded him of Orlesian nobles sans pomp and ego. Somehow, her movements were fluid with the stone and the creeping vines.

Lúthien held out the bowl in front of him as she waited for his hand to be ready. Cullen caught her gesture and held out his head, upon which she elegantly placed the bowl with spatula in hand. It seems there were no other utensils, but in his hunger, Cullen eagerly scooped up the soup. He devoured the broth in a daze, indifferent to the heat searing his tongue. The elf laughed as she watched him, bemused by his voracity. Her injured friend noticed that she was without her own bowl of stew. Was she to eat? He paused, holding out the bowl towards her as a sign of sharing, but Lúthien shook her head, looking displeased with the contents. The hungry man did not push further. Without hesitation, he resumed the heady consumption of his meal.

As soon as he felt energy surge in his limbs and the warm sensation of a good meal in his stomach, Cullen looked up from his bowl, holding it steady on his lap. He noticed Lúthien watched him as he ate. Her body was still and eyes remained glued on his body. He acted out for her the workings of an entirely different animal. He raised up the bowl to her once more, wondering if she perhaps wanted to experience the same thing, but she merely shook her head. "No?" he said shaking his head too.

"No," she mimed.

"You don't want food?" he continued. "Food?" He wiggled the bowl a little to indicate what the word was referring to.

Lúthien reached out with her hand to push the bowl back to him, letting the clay press against his chest. "No food," she said with determination.

Cullen merely shrugged, wondering how a girl like her could exude all that strength and capacity for survival without eating. He had no words to complain or make strong suggestions, and so it was not his business. They sat there once more silence, he unwilling to consume food while being watched, and she unwilling to consume food at all. In their unintended standstill, Cullen wondered about the events preceding his injury. He wondered why, after rescuing him from the demon, she brought him to these old and forgotten ruins, and why she continued to nurse him through a poison his body could not shake off. A woman like her, an elf who was neither "city elf" nor Dalish, residing in these ancient parts, snaking its path like one of the woodland creatures, chose that day to show herself. If there are many Elves like her, then they have worked hard through a thousand years to keep themselves secret. No excavator, researcher, or military force was able to unearth the existence of _other_ Elves. Just seven years before, the Inquisition thought they had found the last of the Ancient Elves in the Temple of Mythal, but to think there were more that were unbound and free to roam the woods... The odds were striking, and the possibilities would have sent all of Thedas on its heels ready to suppress whatever truths her existence implied.

Somewhat unnerved by his thoughts, Cullen decided it was time for him to test his strength. Using his left arm for support, he did his best to wake his shaky knees. Lúthien saw his struggle and immediately rose to get him to sit still.

Yet Cullen anticipated her reaction and said with steely assurance, "No, don't!" She cocked her head to the side when he blocked her with his hand. "Mana," he added softly. She looked at him dumbfounded before nodding her head and sitting back down. Putting more weight on his legs sent shocks down his muscles, electrocuting and somehow enervating. They felt wobbly, and the pain he felt – like knives slowly prickling into his skin – suggested he was indeed unconscious for more than just a night, perhaps days.

Lúthien pouted as she watched him get up one leg at a time. His bad shoulder hung limp on its sling, and his disheveled hair fell down to his eyes. When he was on both feet, she could see from his face that he felt queasy. His hands hovered in the air, grasping for a semblance of balance. "Ma nadas hamin," she said with a stern look.

Cullen scoffed as he wiped the strands away from his eyes back into his hair. He could feel something warm surge through his wound. _Blood_. He had opened his wound in the attempt. When the attack happened, the injury seemed like any other blade piercing through armor and skin, but perhaps it _was_ dire to begin with. Either way, the thought that he could have been out of it for days worried him beyond reason. He took the job thinking that a steady supply of lyrium would be its reward. Now he was waylaid beyond all means, without anyone to give him the answers he sought, and he knew it was a matter of time before the _real_ withdrawal symptoms kicked in.

"Cullen stop," Lúthien called out when she saw a deep red seep through the bandage. Stop. Mana. It was all they could tell each other. Cullen's arm shot through the air and grabbed her wrist before she could lay a hand on him. His response startled Lúthien, who looked more concerned than anything. She looked up at him puzzled by his obstinacy, but all she saw in those tired amber eyes was frustration and helplessness. He wanted to leave, and he did not care as to what condition he should be leaving in.

"I want to thank you. I really do," he began in earnestness. His hand remained locked around her wrist, dainty and brittle despite all that he saw her do. "But I can't stay here. There is something I must do."

Lúthien winced, whether from his grip or his terse words, Cullen didn't know. He let go either way. Cullen waited for a reply, but she only stood motionless with a fretful look on her face. Her black eyes – deep and abyssal – pulled him in. It was as if he really was inching closer to her, close enough to feel her breathing. She bit her bottom lip, afraid to reveal something dark and secret. With her round oval face and pleading look, he found her lip biting delectable if not dangerous. It was a temptation that begged him, implored him to lay a hand on her. Cullen felt its urge, to trace her lips with his fingers. Perhaps even do more...

She _knew._ Cullen had not realized that his hand was right above her face, so close to doing what he had just thought of. His face paled, somewhat flustered and embarrassed that he _really_ was pulled in. He had known enough women who were so aware of their charms that they used it to their every advantage, but he did not expect her to be able to hypnotize him. Resentful of this effect, he limped away from her. His wobbly knees were unsure, and his arm made concentrating on his movements difficult. Cullen did not have a plan past leaving, but he figured action was better than inaction – waiting in the dark for this mysterious woman to slowly unveil her answers.

Moving over to the cot, he noticed that his outer tunic and leather vestments were neatly folded together. His sword lay in its scabbard as it stood against rocky debris piled together over the years. The sigil of the Inquisition shone against the sunlight protruding from the holes scattered all over the ceiling. Cullen grabbed it, noticing that its weight was heavier than what his hand could handle. He wrapped its belt around his waist, readying himself for the next battle. Lúthien remained silent – much to his surprise – and watched him with the same attentiveness as when he ate.

"Do you always save strangers?" Cullen suddenly asked while lacing together his accouterments. Lúthien merely raised an eyebrow to his question, unsure what to say. The former commander knew he probably would not have gotten an answer, but small talked seemed necessary. It was a subconscious urge. He wanted to somehow say goodbye, to truly thank her. But his suspicions as to who she really was and her intentions prevented any real genuine effort, and so he lunged into interrogation in his uncertainty. "Clearly you don't. You didn't save that guide, at least not in time." He noticed that she bit his lip but more to keep silent rather than to betray any effort to mesmerize. Her brows furrowed with eyes sharpened to a subtle glare. Cullen smirked. _So she does understand me_.

In spite of his instigations, Lúthien was still glued to her spot. When Cullen finished gathering his things, he turned to her for what he hoped to be the last time he would see her. Yet she remained composed and betrayed no impulse to stop him. The astute warrior grinned, predicting that her feigned aloofness meant she would follow him. He would leave, struggling to find his way in the forest, and she would stalk him like some overly fretful mother. Cullen shot her a stern look, "It would do me no good for you to follow me."

The spritely maintained her composure and spoke in a deep melodious voice, "Ar viren in mar banal'ras." Knowing he did not understand, she rose once more and approached him with caution. She dug her hands into a pouch attached to her waist. From it emerged a crystal phial, pristine and transparent. It held a concoction that glowed a luminous blue, lighter than the sky. Lyrium. Cullen's eyes widened, pupils contracting, honing in on something he sought for so long. He impulsively tried to reach for it, to snatch it from her, but she quickly pulled it back towards her.

"Where did you get that?!" he demanded. The pain from his limbs receded, giving way to a simmering rage that energized his body. When he saw how frightened she was by his reaction, he stilled himself, but he could hardly control the desire. "That's lyrium! You _must_ have contact with the outside world... You..."

"Lyrium?" she repeated hesitantly, "Ahn ma esaya, ma te'elan ema. Ra 'ma." With those words, Lúthien hid the lyrium phial back into her pouch.

Cullen growled in frustration. If he had the strength he would have marched to her and took it for himself. It was not just greed or some vice he indulged in. His life depended on it. More than that, his sanity needed it. It prolonged whatever waking consciousness he had left. "I don't understand you!" he shouted almost pleading.

That same look fell on Lúthien's face once more – the look that she knew more than she was ready to reveal. Before she would respond, she slowly approached him, taking his left hand into both of hers. Cullen wanted to pull away, to not let himself fall into her grasp, but before he could protest, she guided him to the doorway where the sun shone brightly from its zenith. When they reached the outer vestibule, a part Cullen never before witnessed, he understood her hesitation in letting him leave.

Cullen's eyes roamed the vast expanse. They were at the peak of an arborous mountain, littered with trees older and larger than he had seen even in the parts of the Arbor Wilds he had explored. The ruins they were in were part of a stone temple jutting out from the very rocks from which they stood. The climb below was steep. Only a proficient and healthy climber could slide down, perhaps with the help of vines or the rugged exterior of the ancient trunks. Statues with severed limbs and crumbling faces were scattered all around. They looked like spires that had grown with the lush foliage encroaching the ruins. For miles around, Cullen could not recognize any part of the horizon. His heart skipped a beat for he was more uncertain than ever whether or not he could ever return from this venture. The warrior looked at Lúthien in disbelief, wondering how or why she achieved the impossible. It truly was impossible for her to haul him so far and in so little time. Yet... could it be possible? The air felt different, and the ruins hummed with their own pulse – Could it be...

"Where am I?" he demanded, checking the fury seething in his voice. "I know you understand me. If you cannot say the words, _try_." He rushed out the command. When she looked as if she would turn away from him, he shot out his left hand and grabbed her by the neck. Without strangling her, he violently pushed her against the entryway wall. "Tell me!"

Lúthien shook in his grasp like a helpless damsel. Her sad eyes turned into deep pools of fear, evoking sympathy from the former commander. Yet he remained steadfast in his interrogation. He would not let her win this mind game. Those years he spent in fear of mages as a templar resuscitated anger he long suppressed. There was no compromising when one was in danger.

"Dream... Cullen," she stammered when she felt his left hand tighten its grip. Still he did not strangle her, but she felt the threat like a looming presence. Lúthien had known his look and his force. It was what soldiers did when they were pushed into the desperation of survival.

"Dream?" he repeated. So she did know some words, if not more. "You mean this is a dream?"

Lúthien shook her head violently, trying to squirm her way from his grasp. Her fingers wrapped around his hand, trying to pry his loose. "No dreams. Here, no dreams." Tears were welling in her eyes, unbelieving of his betrayal and thanklessness in harming her.

Cullen tried to make out the words. They were in a place without dreams? He did not loosen his grip, and he seemed to get angrier trying to mull over her words. As he was pondering his next move, Lúthien let go of his hands. "I... sorry, Cullen," she whispered.

He was about to open his mouth to question, but in a flash, she deftly stroke the wound in his shoulder with a blow, clutching at its opening. The warrior let loose his prey at her debilitating touch. He felt her fingers stab through whatever scar she had sown through. Cullen let out a cry of pain, howling in the recesses of the mountains. When he fell to his knees, Lúthien stepped away from him and started to descend the steps down to the mountain. She looked back at him once before she made the decision to hurriedly flee.

"Wait!" Cullen called out the moment he was able to recollect himself from the pain. "Wait!" But the calls echoed out in the mountain, and within a second, the Elvhen rogue disappeared into the umbra of the trees. Like a wisp, she was gone.


	3. Chapter 3

Note on the Elven: I used a translator from lingojam/ElvenDAI to write the Elven in this story. Lúthien's name is from a different universe, that of J.R.R. Tolkien's _The Silmarillion_. I do not own any of these aforementioned intellectual properties.

* * *

Lúthien could not remember much beyond a recollection of her death. It was chosen, dulcet, and lulling. Was it several days before? Months? Years? Perhaps eons? She could not tell. The world was so vastly transformed when she awoke. Tongues had been different, structures she once walked were now ruins and devoured by dust. She probed her mind for memories before her decision to "sleep," as they called it, and that she could not recall a single thing aside from sensations, scents, and touches when she entered a place she once roamed. They were her only proof that it had been ages since. The world she once lived in was no longer there. Uthenera made it disappear with a blink of an eye. So much time had passed that her blood was weak. She could not produce magic or play with the reality before her. Still she felt its pulse in the air and its whispers in the shadows.

Sometimes when she is alone and lost in thought, images flash before her. She remembers standing before a hearth in a grand temple. She remembered hearing a great tear in the sky, like a rip that shuddered in everyone's spines. Screams from outside protesting the events rumbled through the halls, and she remembered being guided someplace else. "He is coming for us," the voices said. "He banished our gods, and now we must suffer." A flash of her still and lifeless body would sweep her mind. Ages pass, vines crawl on her skin, her heart stops pulsing, but her eyes move behind those frozen lids. They move through countless dreams.

The reasons behind her awakening plagued her constantly. Lúthien thought to the last dreams she dreamt in Uthenera. The images were but a blur, fragments of stolen moments and slowed time. She recalled a woman, dying in childbirth, and her body corrupted by powerful magic. She too was an elf, but she did not look like other elves. None of the elves she saw in the present moment were like her. Other images overlapped and intertwined. The Dread Wolf stood over her dead body holding a child hostage while a shemlen man pleaded with him – entreating and imploring for the child. Their words escaped her, but she remembered the overwhelming grief she felt in this dream. Her sleep was riddled with an unbearable loss, as if _she_ lost the child. It was _her_ child and _her_ husband that suffered through it as she watched, and an overpowering sensation to hold them both – to keep them away from this sorrow – swept her from the peace she enjoyed through all those years. The dead mother's skin felt cold against hers, and the shemlen – _her_ shemlen – was still a young man, alive and well. But he had an anger simmering in those desperate moments. Betrayal, loss, and suffering. Her eyes opened when those emotions raced in her, and she found herself lost in the recesses of a sleepy ruin. Why or how that moment revived her from a sleepy death was a question she would never know the answer to.

For the present moment, she lay lithe and listless on an indented part of a grove. Her hands brushed against the surface of a pond, its waters calm and humming. She would dip a finger or two in the coolness of the water, seeing the ripples wax and wane as it travelled short distances. Lúthien had forgotten the feeling of water. Most of all, she forgot what it looked like when magic breathed life into it, when it swirled and bubbled out into the air. The new shemlem world seemed darker and less vivacious. Nothing moved. Strangely enough, the world was filled with a deafening silence. No one spoke, but the urge to speak was present, among the trees and the shadows especially. Still, there was tranquility to it that she envied. She had not felt it since waking.

When she knew she felt that same shemlen – the same but older and with more hardness in his heart – was in the forest, she had to follow, to watch, and to _help_. A voice called to her in moments of quiet. It begged with the same earnestness as the shemlen did to the Dread Wolf. It asked her to help him, to _save_ him. A power rumbled through the forest, disturbed that it was to be despoiled by the presence of greedy hands. But he was not greedy, she knew. The same voice told her he was merely lost and wandering. Before the Veil existed, Lúthien constantly heard voices in the Fade. It was a part of the world. They were spirits and waking dreamers reaching out to those left in their consciousness. The ancient elf suspected that something similar was happening. A spirit or a dead person (perhaps the woman she saw?) guided her to Cullen, and somehow being close to him cemented that desire to help. Yet she had no words. Her dreams in the Fade gave her some. She understood his tongue, but she could not produce the same sounds. Her muscles were tired, weak, and her mind could not emulate the movements necessary for his language. Soon, perhaps, she would know the tricks. She could reveal to him the reasons for her guidance and care. Someone in the Fade loves him still, and it was strong enough that it reached her in the expanse of the Arbor Wilds, where many of her kin still slept the Uthenera and are undisturbed by the violence going around them.

A slight ripple in the pond alarmed the sleepy elf, but she saw it was only a small bird taking a dip. Lúthien retreated to her grove-like sanctuary after Cullen quite wrongfully threatened to strangle her. She could still feel his grip encircling her neck. Though she had been stronger and quicker, it disquieted her to know he was so willing to resort to violence, to forget what she had done for him, and to satiate the darker needs of his kind. _Lyrium_. That was what he called it. She recognized the luminescent blue whirring like fast and hushed breaths. She could not place anywhere in her memory where she encountered it, but it was familiar to her. In fact, she could have sworn she heard it singing the night she "met" Cullen. How could it not? Its voice was loud, louder than the spirit who gave her the macabre dream of stillborns and widowhood, louder than the call that woke her from death.

The amber in his eyes seared with violent lust for Lyrium. It reminded Lúthien of the Evanuris she served. They wielded power with a voracity hitherto unmatched. Did the shemlen merely repeat their mistakes? Are they merely using power, like Lyrium, to mimic their all-consuming hunger? It was bad enough when they were all immortal (mortality being a condition Lúthien felt when she woke), but generations of mortals cycling through the same destruction unnerved her. With bitterness, she concluded that her place in Uthenera was indeed better.

Footsteps crushing brittle grass piqued Lúthien's ears. She perked up from her reclined position, holding herself up with both hands. Muffled voices travelled from afar, but they were getting louder, closer. Lúthien hurriedly ran up to a large willow tree and swiftly climbed up its trunks. Though barefooted, she was able to fit her toes along its nooks and ridges before pulling herself up to its highest branch, shielded by a bulwark of leaves drooping to the ground. From atop, she peeked over the twigs blocking her view, eyeing who the intruders may be.

"... He last went on some... mission. You know, mercenary work. Old templars stoop to anything these days."

Lúthien's ears were on alert. She squinted to see from whom the voice belonged. It was an accented voice, unlike Cullen's speech. It rolled the "r's" and breathed heavily on consonants. She could have sworn she heard that speech in a dream...

"I see, and do _you_ have any idea where we might be going?"

The second man's voice shared more of Cullen's accent. It sounded more dignified, spoken as if by a dignitary. Lúthien pushed more of the foliage away and saw the silhouettes of two men. The first man who spoke wore metal armor wrapped in silken robes. He donned a mask, gilded in gold and shining bright. Feathers lined this mask and completely covered the upper half of his head. A sword was strapped to his waist. The second man's head was completely exposed. Lúthien saw dark and carefully coiffed hair. His skin was darker, like hers – a tawny brown. When they turned by the pond where she had just reclined, she could see the second man's face more clearly. A mustache curled above his lip, and he had fine sharp features that gave him prince-like regality. He donned asymmetrical robes that reminded her of the Evanuris somehow although she knew he was no elf. Magic pulsed from him, and her blood could feel his strength. A wooden staff embedded with a large orb on its top confirmed her suspicions. Mages still existed even with the Veil.

The first man laughed heartily to the other's question. "Messere Dorian, I am the best tracker one can find in the deep parts of the Emerald Graves. Even more so in the Arbor Wilds! My contacts informed me that your _friend_ was last seen hiring an old local - ... insane by their accounts. He could not have gotten far!"

Lúthien thought the man with the heavy accent spoke too fast and emphasized the wrong syllables. She understood most of their tongue, but it was hard to catch every detail. She knew they were pursuing someone – someone who was misguided or lost. Could they be...?

"Let's hope for your sake he _isn't_ far. If Lavellan were alive she would kill me! You'd think women minded their husbands more, the way they worry. But no, they shirk their responsibilities with tragic death and everything! Leaves the rest of us in the dust, if you ask me." He laughed at his own words, but in a way that echoed with a bit of sadness, as if humor was the only way he could cope with something harsh and hanging.

"Messere, I have heard tales of your rhetoric and your sense of... _humour_. We Orlesians call it, uh, how do you say – _plaisir_? _Divertissement_? Words sharpened by wit, and your words are definitely sharp!"

The two indulged in banter, words whose plurality of meanings escaped the concealed elf, as they investigated the area. They searched with the rigor of dogs. Given that the sun had begun to descend from its heights, their haste was understandable.

"Someone was here," the "Messere Dorian" observed loudly. His hands grazed the soft and warm plot of pressed soil where Lúthien passed the time. The other man spun to Messer Dorian's side. His hands too felt for the imprint left on the ground, and Lúthien could see that the tracker's eyes caught sight of more signs of her presence.

"Not the commander..."

"You know he's not a commander anymore-..."

"If he is a soldier as he is famed to be and tall as you said he is, then he would have left a bigger, uh, how do you say... track? An animal or perhaps a smaller person was here, but not the commander."

They both ambled to little spots on the ground where Lúthien's feet fell. She always walked in light and careful footsteps, so she was shocked to see that the men easily spotted her footprints. It was not much, barely a trace even. But little indentations or loose soil indicated her rush. Heat rushed to her cheeks. She did not want to be found.

The elf adjusted herself and moved further back on the branch closer to the main trunk. She had thought of climbing higher, but the tallest branches were too small for her to dangle. Her eyes darted to other trees, hoping to jump to another.

All the while, the tracker scanned the ground for more of her footprints, and indeed he found more. He traced them back to the weeping willow. He cocked an eyebrow (hidden by his mask) and uttered an audible, "Ah..."

"What?" asked Messer Dorian.

"It seems our tracks disappear at this point." He turned to scan the surroundings.

Lúthien let out a soft and relieved sigh. They have not connected that she could have climbed. Yet the suspense was not over. Instead of going over to the tracker's side, Messer Dorian caught something in his eye. He walked to the other side of the pond, closer to where Lúthien originally had lain. Another smaller tree had roots jutting out over the water... The hidden elf's hands immediately felt around her back. Her eyes bulged... _the bow!_

In a hollow next to the reeds, the mage discovered a bow, gilded in a translucent metal. It shone in the darkness next to a quiver of arrows. Lúthien suppressed a gasp by covering her mouth with both her hands. She had always been careful, never going anywhere without her weapon. How could she suffer such a lapse of judgment?

"It seems we are not alone in this forest," Messere Dorian announced. The tracker left his spot of confusion by the weeping willow and jogged up to his partner. The mage did not touch the bow, but the tracker immediately reached for it.

Holding it in his hands (heavier than he initially believed), he marveled at the craftsmanship. His fingers fiddled with the twine and its extreme tension, barely able to pluck it. The body of the bow itself was surprisingly intricate. From afar, it shone a smooth surface, but from up close one could see intricate etches. Ancient Elven ornamentation lined it, serpent-like calligraphy running along its edges.

"I have never seen anything like this," the tracker said in awe. His hand motioned to remove his mask, as if to get a better look, but he hesitated and then changed his mind.

"Me neither," chimed the mage. "And I've seen masterwork bows. The Inquisitor herself was quite the archer."

Lúthien's olive skin turned to a ruby red. She was nervous, anxious, and panicking. They held her weapon – a gift from Andruil herself – like some artifact to be stowed away. Her master had always taught her to never let another grab hold of her weapon. It was a sign of defeat, like a limb torn from one's body. Her spine felt shivers and prickles the more they fiddled with its twine. Her right hand felt for thigh where a small belt wrapped around holding another dagger. Whoever these men were, they were crossing a boundary she held sacred. She had no intent to kill, neither did she have intent to relinquish the one part of her she kept from before the Veil.

Slowly the elf crawled on the branch she was perched on. She tried to reach its other end without making it creak or sway with her movements. Lúthien neared a point close to the two shemlen. It was close enough that she can descend upon them from the shadows – pouncing like a red lion.

"Something's not right..." the mage murmured. He could feel something tingling on the back of his neck, the feeling of being watched... the presence in the shadows. He fought alongside such fighters before. Or against, there were those moments too. Those fighters dwelled in the darkness, like the Inquisitor... Sera... Cole...

The moment Lúthien stood crouched on her feet perched up on the branch, Dorian spun in a second and fired his staff at her direction. A burst of light, like a flash of lightning, shot out of, and it struck the branch. Chips of wood flew in the air, and Lúthien felt herself blasted off from her position. She flailed for a split second before falling off. Her hands tried to grab the line of willow leaves surrounding her, but the force of the blow forced her a ways away. Soaring from its height, she landed with a splash into the pond. Though the water broke her fall, it was not as deep as it could be. Her arms shielded her from the muddy base of the pond, and she tried to stay submerged before facing her new foes.

Reaching up and out for the surface, Lúthien emerged with a voracious and breathy gasp. Her wavy hair fell like heavy drapes upon her body, reaching down to her waist. Her leather accouterments and breeches clung tight around her, suffocating her skin. She crawled on fours to the edge of the pond, trying to reach for the ground before the two men could get a hold of her. But as soon as she felt sand, a cold and sharp edge pressed against her jugular. It pointed her chin up, making her look eye to eye with both assailants.

"Who are you?!" barked messere Dorian, readying his staff for a second blow. The other man continued to hold his sword upon on her neck, almost piercing her skin.

Lúthien merely blinked as she breathed heavily. Her eyes jumped from one man to the other, unsure of what to say. What could she say?

Seconds passed, and she did not say anything. In his impatience, the tracker used one hand and grabbed her by the shoulder as he moved his sword away. He lifted her up and slammed her against the dry ground before repositioning his sword on her neck. The sunlight shone through the foliage, and the two could see they held a young woman before them. She was an elf, alone and haplessly clad in leather and fur.

"Maker!" Messer Dorian's eyes softened from their threatening glare to a look of concern. He did not withdraw his staff, but he ceased pointing it at her. "Sheathe your sword Pierre! You can see she's just a girl!"

"What?! This rabbit?!" the tracker shouted. "Sneaky heathens is what they are!"

Lúthien was confused. She could barely cling to the words they threw at each other. She squirmed under their scrutiny. Her head turned slightly, eyeing the bow they dropped to the ground in the time she fell. The tracker saw where she turned her gaze and immediately stepped on it with his heavy boot.

"'Just a girl' says the mage. She wants this weapon!" the tracker, seemingly angrier than his earlier and more jocular tone, kicked the bow off to the side. Lúthien gulped, fearing for her life. The irony was not lost on her frantic head. Just moments earlier, she longed for the Waking Dream – for the death that gave her so much peace. Now these humans offered her a different kind of death. Different, but they both share the same ends. Why was she so afraid? Why did she cower under their mortal thumbs like an ant waiting to be crushed?

Messer Dorian came between them. The tracker drew back his sword out of fear of harming his comrade. "I believe we stumbled upon _her_ camp. We took _her_ bow, and I shot her out of the sky. Her reaction is _not_ that unreasonable," said the mage. He raised his hands as if to coo the tracker like a wild stallion.

Yet Pierre – that was his name? – did not back away. He snarled as if in provocation. "Last I heard, Magister Pavus had no interest in little _girls_!"

The slighted man did not take the bait. A chuckle rolled out of his throat before somewhat smirking, "And I thought Orlesians were better at the Game. Work on your insults mon ami!"

The other man's shoulders relaxed. His battle stance slowly transitioned into a more alert pose. "As you wish messere," he said scoffing. He sheathed his sword and subsequently marched up to the Elven nymph in their hands. Lúthien saw this as an opportunity to scurry away, but the moment her muscles made the move, the tracker callously stomped on her wrist.

"Ag!" she let out a grunt through her clenched teeth. The man named Messere Dorian made a move to stop him, but the tracker immediately relaxed his hold and grabbed his prisoner's bruised hands.

"But we can't just let the rabbit go," he said with a sly grin. His gloved hand cupped her chin and raised her head so their eyes could meet. Lúthien's deep brown eyes, sad and warm to a templar in need, was now steely to her assailant. Behind his mask, she could see sharp blue eyes without hatred or anger. There was something else. A look the lion gives to the fawn he is about to toy with.

Messere Dorian shifted uncomfortably. He could read a lot in another's body language. His companion's gave him unsettled feeling. He knew Pierre to be a bit of a loose canon. They did not know each other well, but one can tell from how quickly he downed the mead or how aggressively he taunted the tavern wench what kind of man this tracker was. Dorian thought better than to hire any sell sword. After all, the one he was after was also as self-destructive...

"I agree," Dorian finally managed, "But let's not tarry." He pushed himself in front of the tracker, tactfully separating him from the elf. Crouching low, he grabbed the elf by one arm and hoisted her up. She sat up eye level with him. This other man had warmth to him that was absent in the tracker. The wrinkle on his forehead and the curled frown on his lip conveyed a deep sense of regret. _I'm sorry_ he seemed to say, and Lúthien could sense it.

"What's your name?" he asked.

"Name?" she mimed. Lúthien recognized those words. The question was almost like a greeting. "Lúthien," she said tersely, unwilling to antagonize her captors.

"Lúthien! A pleasure to meet you." Dorian stood back up and held a hand out to her. The elf was confused for a moment, but when he reached lower, she realized he was extending it to her. With her uninjured hand, she timidly placed her palm on his. In an instant, he pulled her up so she was standing. "My name is Dorian," he continued.

My name. Your name. She knew now how to communicate those words to Cullen. What a silly thought... how unnecessary, he already knew her-...

Lúthien's body jumped, her shoulders close together, and her spritely legs somewhat stretched upward. Her actions earlier today, fleeing his addicted rage, and her decision to incapacitate him... Her face flushed, and she realized that she had left him all alone in the ruins for longer than she intended.

The tracker noted this change in her demeanor and approached. "Is something the matter?" His tone was somewhat gentlemanly, layered with some hint of cunning.

Lúthien backpedaled away from him with a quivering lip. She nursed her injured hand with slight caresses, turning to Dorian for pity. She hoped he would buy the act, take her for a harmless damsel, and let her go. Someone needed her, and she carelessly forgot him. It was the burden of being pulled out of Uthenera and having her mind in a jumble. Words are lost. One's tongue forgets, but everything else stays the same. Cunning is necessary. One had to resort to a language that played with others.

Dorian was somewhat aloof to the act. He was too focused on figuring out how to take her hostage without... well, taking her hostage.

"Lúthien," Dorian called sternly. He faced her once more, entering an interrogative state. "Could you tell us why you were up in that tree? Why you were watching us?"

Nothing but a blank stare came from the elf. She understood, somewhat nodding her head and fluttering her eyes. Yet how could she explain? Her innocence must be proven somehow, despite the fact that it was _they_ who intruded on her sanctuary, her place of leisure, her _otium_. Lúthien merely bit her lower lip in response.

The magister sighed, somewhat disbelieving that their captive refused cooperation. Something in his gut told him that it was fine. She _was_ just a harmless elf who wandered too far from her clan. Given the Orlesians' treatment of elves however, he knew that Pierre would rather kill her on the spot and remove all doubt. What was he to do?

"The rabbit's not talking," Pierre concluded with a hint of sarcasm.

Lúthien glowered. She did not like this word... _rabbit_.

"Hush!" Dorian interceded with exasperation. Another approach was necessary. "We are looking for a man lost in these woods." When the mage noticed Lúthien maintaining an impassive expression, he let out another sigh and tried slower. "We," he turned and gestured to himself and his comrade, "are looking..." he pointed to his eyes, "for... a man."

Lúthien wrinkled her forehead, perplexed that he reiterated his words at a slower and stupefying pace. It did not help much, but she gathered the importance of a man who was lost (and lost was a word she knew well) to them. Could they be after Cullen?

"He's tall... a little big... somewhat blond hair... here Pierre show her your hair!"

The masked Pierre chortled. "Not on my life."

Dorian rolled his eyes. "We need to show her what he looks like. Maybe she's seen him!"

"I doubt it," replied Pierre. He crossed his arms defiantly.

"Fasta vass!" Dorian cursed under his breath. Lúthien was deadpan and losing patience. The mage tried a different attempt. "He has a scar right here!" he pointed to his upper lip and exaggeratedly made a ridge on his skin to copy the scar. The elf chuckled a little.

"Show her the insignia, maybe she's seen the sword Master Pavus," interrupted Pierre. He tossed a patch of an embroidered sigil in the air. Dorian caught it effortlessly, squeezing it in his hand before showing her the image.

"His sword would have this emblem." He placed it on Lúthien's palm. She placed it in both her hands and felt the coarseness of the leather. Embroidered on it is an eye – sharp and all seeing. A sword ran through the middle of this eye. It was a peculiar image. One she had indeed seen before.

"Cullen!" she blurted out. The image rests on his sword. She knew. She carried that as well.

Dorian almost jumped. "Where is he?!" Days into an expedition that was proving futile until that very moment now seemed to come together.

Pierre said nothing, but he walked closer to Lúthien, eyeing her with deep and unhidden suspicion.

Though the mage tried hard to mask a beaming smile, finally finding hope in this forsaken venture, Lúthien's lips curled into a frown. She was somewhat unsure. They indeed were looking for Cullen, but is she supposed to just lead them to him? Just moments before they attacked her, and the other's aggressiveness made her doubt their intentions. Blood rushed through her temple in a panic. The echoes of her dream, the entreaties of a beaten man, the cry of a child in the last seconds of its life, the call of a voice to save him...

The other men sensed she was afraid somehow, but neither were willing to encourage or stifle that fear. Instead they waited for her to collect herself, to answer. Yet still no answer. Lúthien again glanced at the bow yards away from their spot. It was a distracted moment, a gesture, that did not sit well with the distrusting companion.

"Listen rabbit!" Pierre forcefully grabs her by the hand. Lúthien cries out in protest, her eyes turning to the more sympathetic man for help. In a matter of seconds, he had climbing rope around her wrists, and the Orlesian tracker tied it tightly. The elf could feel her fingers pale from the lack of blood flowing into her hands. She whimpered, feeling her sprained wrist suffer the tension. Dorian stood, unsure of the course of action. What if she knew and did not want them to find him?

After Pierre finished restraining their elven captive, he held on to the other end of the rope like a master leashing his new dog. Dorian found it distasteful. He grimaced, showing disapproval.

"Show us where he is," commanded Pierre. He pulled on the rope, yanking Lúthien closer to him. Her whole body shook in trepidation, looking every which way for an escape.

"Talk!" he raised his hand and motioned to land a backhanded blow against her pouting lips. The elf immediately cowered away.

Dorian stepped in between them once more and yanked the rope from his partner. "Enough! You Orlesians are honestly the most rabid savages I can think of."

Lúthien, who was still drenched from her fall in the pond and bruised by Pierre's abuse, shivered. Fear was one thing, but humiliation rendered her immobile and mute. All her life, she had known a dignity beyond what the humans could ever live. Now, trapped in their hands, they degraded her like some captive beast.

The mage could feel her resentment. He removed his overcoat and wrapped it around her. In Dorian's experiences with war, he knew threats and violence only pushed people to their limit. He was in the Arbor Wilds to find Cullen, nothing more. "Lúthien," he gently intoned.

The elf looked timidly his way, waiting for a response.

"I am sorry my partner has been acting... unworthy. Please lead us to Cullen. We need to find him."

* * *

Cullen had it in his mind that he would kill her. The elusive elf – his savior and executioner – condemned him to rot in a forsaken ruin, but the once proud warrior would not give up so easily. After he had recovered from her unexpected blow, he took the knife she left by the fire and heated it in the flames. Like coal, the dagger glowed in crimson. The metal was wavy, almost melting. Its edges were lined white with its smoldering heat. Before it could actually reach melting point, Cullen undressed his bandages and pressed the glowering blade against his open wound – a gaping hole on his shoulder now that he saw it. He would have screamed if not for the cloth he use to gag his mouth. His teeth clenched hard at the pain as he could hear his flesh sizzle with the flames. When he was left with a stinging sensation, he could see through his wincing eyes that the wound was burned closed – blood dried black on his shoulder. He hurriedly threw the blade away and curled to a ball as he endured more of the burn's after-effects.

His teeth almost tore the cloth from the hard grinding and clenching of his jaw. He pressed his left hand on the injured shoulder, hoping the pressure would help, but it only added to the pain of his burnt skin. Cullen let out a muffled cry through the rag, and tears almost welled in his eyes. Closing his eyes, he gave himself a moment. The reeling sensation the burning gave him eventually dissipated, and when it evanesced into nothing more than some numb weight on his limbs, Cullen rose with the help of his wobbly legs and packed what he could in the sackcloth Lúthien left.

When he regained more strength, he faced the mountainous horizon from the entryway and stared down the ruin's faded stairs. It was a long descent – like a mountain hike but with ruined ridges for support. Though pain lingered in his shoulder, his resolve served as an adequate palliative. Cullen reached down the steps, one foot at a time. He was not as graceful or as agile as Lúthien, but he could do with his slower pace. All he needed was escape – back to civilization – and he could let this horrific nightmare disappear in his past. His hands clung to the ridge he had just been on while one of his feet would peer down into the unknown. As he slowly and painstakingly progressed, he noticed the woods crowed over him. The cerulean sky with its glaring sun became shades above the dome of leaves and entwined branches circling over the mountain pass.

"No dream." He thought the words over, chewing over them and swallowing in confusion. Cullen pondered as to what she might mean seeing as how knowing where he was might have been his best way out. What was the place of no dreams? There was also the question of the supposed language barrier between them. It was clear that Lúthien could understand the Common Tongue, or at least some key words and syntax registered for her. Yet she herself could not speak it back. Her intentions or meanings would always be lost if not partially so. Cullen wondered what good it would have done to wait for her or stay. It would have been debasing for one of them to occupy the position of pantomime, and he never let his past accomplishments get so far into his head that he was comfortable with the idea of an ingratiating subaltern – mimicking and learning only _his_ language. The reverse situation would have been as equally unappealing.

Cullen's foot felt that the steps had more densely covered moss than before. He was entering a part of the mountain steeped with humid air. His fingers tangled themselves in a mesh of vine crawling on the old slab of stone that narrowed as he descended. As the air cooled and the wind stilled, he felt the ringing in the back of his head fade to a muted presence. His thirst for Lyrium was gnawing but not debilitating, like an itch one can't scratch. It infuriated him to see her dangle the phial before him. She had looked through _his_ things – an emergency stash in case he went for days, if not weeks, without any Lyrium to stave off the hunger. She even had the gall to withhold it from him, gloating in her power to keep him alive. Somehow, in the shadows of the dense forest and the spiral of stone he climbed down from, he also felt remorse. Cullen remembered in his youth how in control he used to be of his emotions. There were moments when he felt the quiet storm of addiction rage inside him, but he had always quelled it in front of others. He tried to show compassion when he could. Yet when Lúthien revealed to him his one vulnerability, that one phial keeping him alive, he lost himself in a fit of heavily repressed anger. Whatever her intentions were, she _had_ saved him. She showed him kindness in a place where he thought none could be found. Now, in his years of relapse, it was as if he tenuously held on by a thread. How could he threaten her so?

The soreness in his right shoulder went away, he noticed. It was not _gone_ , but he was beyond feeling it. With the help of both arms, he continued the never ending climb downwards, but fresh in his memory was the feeling of the elf's skin on his left hand. He thought of the faint pulse of a vein, throbbing underneath her milk-like skin. It beat with the rhythm of fear, and somehow, a monster in him found it enticing. Though his cheeks reddened with shame at the thought, Cullen _did_ find excitement in threatening her so. The grazing of her fingers against his cheeks when she volunteered to shave him... A nymph-like woman quivering in his one hand... Maker, he had become a monster.

His thoughts ran to his late wife and the void she left. Had he ceased respecting women? Widowhood was like a spiral downward. Drink came, then the whores, then the lonely and vulnerable women... He had not thought to find happiness in anyone else, neither did he think of their happiness. The following month would mark Lavellan's death anniversary, and Cullen knew he had to get back to Ferelden, lay flowers in her grave, and say the Dalish rites for the dead. He thought of the pilgrims who flocked to Skyhold still, honoring her memorial as if her remains were really laid to rest there. Only the so-called inner circle had the knowledge of her true whereabouts, and it seemed none of them had the courage to visit all at once. Cullen wondered what Lavellan, former Inquisitor and beloved wife, would think of him now. Would she look at him with sadness? Anger? Or, worse... disappointment? Would she understand and feel for him? Would she reject the man he had become knowing how far he let himself fall? Or would she, like Lúthien, show kindness? Would she rescue him in her own way? Yet he knew with a sort of bitterness that Lavellan had always rescued him – whether it was from an overarching evil named Corypheus or from the suffering of lyrium addiction, she had been there to save him. Whatever he suffered through, Lavellan always bestowed upon him the forgiving and accepting gaze of those almond-shaped eyes. Small and soft, emitting a certain kindness that always whispered a muted "I love you." It was impossible, Cullen knew, but he thought he sensed the same light – the same hushed whisper – from Lúthien's saddened stare. Sad indeed, like she watched through his suffering without saying a word. She had the air of a helpless wallflower, bearing the suffering of years heaped on years.

As the shadows loomed and the bright sky sharply contrasted with his dark surroundings, Cullen felt a slight tinge in the air. The forest pulsed with a louder beat – a slower yet more palpable rhythm. The trace amount of Lyrium in his system made him susceptible to the feeling. There was magic – old and powerful magic – breathing through the vines and leaves. When he had been a templar, he knew that power and felt the urge to sequester it. His right hand reached for the pommel of his sword. The shoulder wound was swollen, oozing puss due to his unusual activity and burnt skin. Still, he could ignore it if need be. He could draw his sword and make whoever lurked fight for the bloody prize of his death.

Finally Cullen reached what he thought to be solid ground, or at least a platform of some kind. He was in another grove surrounded by smaller yet denser trees, not unlike those they found in the Frostback Basin with their thick branches functioning as walking bridges. A luminous green light seemed to emanate from their trunks, and the grass seemed musty and wet from years of enduring cold and sunless light. Before he could definitively conclude he was back on forest ground, the path he walked led to another stony ruin, like the skeletal remains of a chamber. It lacked a ceiling. The walls of the entryway were barely there. Where walls and mortar were missing, vegetation and growth encroached. The steps he descended must have led to another part of an otherwise large temple that spanned the mountainside. Beyond the entryway, he saw nothing but more growth and shadow. Seeing as how his path was linear, Cullen decided to proceed. The only other way was to turn back and climb the mountain once more – hour by hour and step by step.

Cullen tried to scan for the horizon, but the thickness of the woods prevented him from locating the sun. He climbed up to the entryway, its foundations cracked and jutting out of the ground. Upon entering the debris-filled chamber, he noticed a pillar standing directly in front of the entryway. What he presumed to be some writing, written in what seemed to be elven but too faded and damaged to tell, lined the ancient stone. The remaining walls of the chamber had barely visible murals. It depicted what Cullen thought were Elves, all standing in line with the same face tattoos – vallaslin – marking their expressionless faces. It was a curved and floral-like design on their left eye. Their hands were thrown up in the air as if imploring a higher being, a god, for maker-knows-what. The images signaled to him that the temple he was in was not the one he initially set out in search for. Cullen knew he was after the Temple of Andruil, a god that incidentally was important to Lavellan. Her vallaslin commemorated that deified huntress, with an emblem that was distinctly different – an arrow pointing down to its mark – from the ones depicted on the mural. He had been in the wrong place this entire time.

The room itself had grid-like pedestals for a floor, and the corners of the wall had braziers perhaps for holding veilfire. Lavellan told Cullen all those years ago of the ritual she completed in the Temple of Mythal. The former commander guessed that whatever temple he was in, he must have entered a room that held a similar function or a test of sorts. But Cullen did not have Elven experts to guide him, and so he stood motionless and in deference to the magic still pulsing in the chamber's crumbling veins.

A faint song, like a lullaby lost in memory, hummed in Cullen's ear. He turned every which way, looking for its source, but it seemed to emanate from the room itself. Whatever magic was left in the temples, it was active, and it was goading him into the ritual. He stepped forward, nearing the center of the room. Each time his foot limped onto another grid on the floor, the ground lit with a pale glow. Symbols hummed a tone, activating the magic he felt. But what was he to do?

Cullen proceeded anyway. He wanted a way out, not further into the temple. The floor lit and hummed as if singing in a symphony as he went deeper into the chamber, all the way across to the other end. An opening in the room led out to another path down the mountain. He spun around, taking a good look as he made the decision to leave. Whatever secrets this temple held, it was not for him.

The subsequent pathway was not as maze-like and arduous as the first one. He saw a couple of well-preserved staircases that opened out to a courtyard. The courtyard itself was in shambles. Tall grass shot out of the foundations, the omnipresent vines jutting out to devour the remains of a distant past... The most striking feature was, towards the end of the courtyard, the source of all the humming and glowing. An activated Eluvian stood with its glasslike surface forming ripples and waves with each breeze thrown down the mountainside.

An unsettled feeling in his stomach rolled. Where _was_ he? Cullen pondered earlier how Lúthien could have hauled him to such a distance – to a place that barely felt like they were even in Orlais. Now some part of the reality is stabilizing, and it disturbed him. Would the Eluvian lead back to the Arbor Wilds? Or would it transport him farther away and further into his death? Cullen contemplated waiting for Lúthien to return. A part of him knew that the elf would come back, feeling somewhat sorry for the state she left him in all the while curious as to whether he had checked his rage. Yet another part of him knew he had to leave, that waiting would not present more answers. Besides, he had spent a good three hours descending the steps at a snail's pace. If she wanted to return, she would have done so by now. That fact was worrying, and he wondered if he at all scared her or perhaps angered her away. His shoulder still stung, reminiscent of the flame that touched his skin. Leaving was necessary.

Cullen timidly approached the mirror. Though he knew Lavellan navigated one seamlessly in their time of the Exalted Council, he felt apprehension with ancient magic. It was so different from the power of human mages – easily bendable to the power of Lyrium. This somehow felt beyond his control, and he was about to dive headfirst. He swallowed his reservations, letting a big gulp roll down his throat. With his left hand, he reached into the mirror. It was an interesting sensation – like wading into cool and shallow waters. The light seemed blinding as his face closed in, going underneath the surface. He reached out into the darkest depths, calling for the other side.


	4. Chapter 4

Note on the Elven: I used a translator from lingojam/ElvenDAI to write the Elven in this story. Lúthien's name is from a different universe, that of J.R.R. Tolkien's _The Silmarillion_. I do not own any of these aforementioned intellectual properties.

* * *

 _Six months earlier_

Val Royeux's dungeons had surprisingly comfortable cots, or at least Cullen thought so. He had been there three days, with the first day of his stay spent in a drunken stupor. He couldn't quite remember what happened. The evening in the tavern had been tense. Lots of fear in the air, thick with paranoia. Names were thrown. "Knife ear." "Rabbit." "Savages." Names turned into tales. "Did you hear? Settlements outside Griffon Keep have been raided... Halamshiral is scrambling for servants now that knife-ears have all disappeared... I knew an elf once, shifty bugger he was!" Cullen couldn't take it. He wouldn't take it. A punch was thrown. Swords were drawn. Thank the Maker he was the better fighter.

The sound of keys rattling against a chain and metal bars swinging open alerted Cullen. He had been staring out into space. The city jailer, who was a former templar himself, appeared with a mysterious figure behind him. The jailer had been sneaking lyrium to his would-be Ferelden comrade, but only with a special dispensation of the coin of course. Now he looked graver. Lyrium deliveries usually came with a sly grin or a devious wink of the eye. Not today.

Both figures approached. "He's all yours," said the Jailer. He then walked away with his steps echoing against the mortar walls. The figure remained silent. Cullen did not look up. He was disinterested in his visitor.

"Looking handsome as ever, commander." That thick Nevarran accent...

Cullen's startled face looked up. His brows were furrowed, displeased with the surprise. "Happy to please," he said disdainfully. He leaned forward from where he was sitting, placing both elbows on his thighs, hands clasped together and hovering over the scar on his lip. It had been years...

Cassandra merely nodded. She stared at him for so long, intently observing in her silence. It made Cullen feel somewhat self-conscious. No doubt, she was noting how badly he had atrophied over the years. His formerly coiffed blond hair was ruffled, with stray ringlets falling down his temples. A salt and pepper beard replaced the shadowy stubble that once lined his jaw. Some of his arms were a little leaner, he knew. His body was weaker, muscles not as taut. Yet the seeker looked as if she had not aged a day. Perhaps escaping civilization to rebuild the Seekers helped her. Perhaps she found happiness with them.

"How did you know I was here?" Cullen asked, finally interrupting their pause.

Cassandra did her best to give Cullen a warm smile. He was an old friend after all, and she knew he was not in a very good state. In fact, he hadn't been in a while. Things had changed, and seeing him that way – so dejected and, worse, defeated – brought the lines of pity on her face.

"Dorian told me..." A scoff rumbled from Cullen's lips. Cassandra frowned disapprovingly, "He is only keeping his promise. At least someone is."

"I'm glad to hear of it!" Cullen snapped impatiently. Reunions bothered him. The people who saw him always acted like mirrors, reflecting how much change had really happened. When he saw old friends, the seeker included, he saw nothing but the better and shinier past he forsook. It was difficult to see, and much more difficult to face.

Cassandra said nothing. She knew any words would only encourage his anger. Though Cullen tried hard to appear indifferent, she knew he felt ashamed that she was there. It was something intrinsic to him – this unwavering image of what constituted right and what constituted wrong. It just so happened that he had ignored this image, and that he in fact tried to cast it aside. She couldn't be upset with him, knowing this. To ease some of the discomfort, she walked a little closer, putting a gloved hand on the bar jailing him, as if she was putting a hand on his shoulder. "When Dorian said you had... "retired"... I did not think this was what he meant. Still, I am glad to see you alive, Cullen."

Cullen lowered his head, his hand reaching to itch the back of his neck. He wasn't nervous, neither was he anxious. He was acting petulant, he knew, but it did not help the pain. It did not erase whatever pulled him away from those reaching hands. "Why didn't the Magister come himself?" asked Cullen, not without a hint of sarcasm. He avoided the subject of himself. It was the best way to cope with it, and it was the best way to leave his friends out of it.

The seeker crossed her arms and stood firm. She kept her tone short and terse. "Dorian is part of important negotiations right now with the Orlesians. Tevinter has some interest in these Elven rebellions – if you can call them that. Anyway, he can't be seen picking up criminals in Jail-..."

"Yes we wouldn't want to besmirch his reputation!" Cullen shot back in bemusement.

The older woman furrowed her eyebrows in irritation. "Especially not by bailing out the former Commander of the Inquisition from charges of brawling and inciting a riot." She let out an exasperated sigh and turned away. Dorian warned her this would not be easy.

"Forgive me," Cullen conceded, quite surprisingly. He stood and approached the locked cell doors. "I've had a rough two nights."

Cassandra merely shrugged. "You're too old for this Cullen." Her hands moved for keys tied to her waist belt. The jailer handed them to her earlier as per their agreement. She moved to unlock the door. Without further ado, she opened the creaking iron bars and freed her vagrant friend. Cullen stepped out, not looking at all relieved by the turn of events. Cassandra hadn't realized he only wore sackcloth and pants – the garb of a true prisoner. She couldn't have him step out in Val Royeux like that. It would defeat the whole purpose of her and Dorian's propitious arrangement.

"Where are your clothes?" Cassandra asked.

"Wearing them," he answered curtly.

She motioned for him to follow anyway. She was certain the guard would be privy to helping them with trivial matters like that.

"I never knew you were one to start fights, commander." Her voice echoed in the corridor leading to the main vestibule of the jail.

"I didn't, and I'm not your commander. So please stop calling me that." The irritation of his voice was not lost on her. Cullen wanted silence. Small talk seemed pointless to him.

"The guard told me everything. You attacked tavern goers for badmouthing elves?"

Cullen raised an eyebrow at the seeker. "That shocks you?"

Cassandra let out a light chuckle. "I suppose. You never were too worried when Lavellan was badmouthed." Her eyes darted to Cullen without the turn of her head. She instantly regretted bringing her up right away.

Yet Cullen was not fazed. He merely looked on and answered, "For every person who spoke ill of her, there were easily ten more who admired her. Things were... different back then."

The seeker faced her path again in relief. Perhaps he was not as broken as Magister Pavus had insisted. Perhaps he had his reasons for behaving the way he did, and perhaps...

The sound of a large knob turning and rusty hinges screeching captured both their attentions. The guards held it open as they proceeded to the vestibule. Cassandra turned to the constable with a bag of the required gold. He handed to her a piece of parchment. Cullen had been through this enough times to know what it was she signing. Quill in hand, the seeker went about her work silently. When she finished, the jailer returned with a folded cotton tunic atop new breeches. Orlesian hospitality never failed them.

"Anything for the Inquisition," he said with a smirk underneath his gilded mask. Cassandra took the offering wordlessly. She was used to it. Unlike the others, somehow she maintained much of her youthful look, save a wrinkle here or there. Laypeople and nobles alike recognized her, and they recognized what she stood for. Cullen, on the other hand...

He took the clothes from Cassandra impassively. The constable motioned to a room, which he presumed to be the jail's barracks. He could change there. Once Cullen had disappeared, Cassandra let out another sigh, this time lethargic and somewhat amused. The experience had been easier than she thought. Her Tevinter friend gave her the impression that Cullen had been more difficult in the past and unbearably so. Looking around, she realized this had been the same jail that held Thom Rainier. It had been the same jail that once saw Cullen as the dignified and powerful commander reining in the Orlesians. She wondered if anyone knew who he was. Though his face remained the same – still easy on the eyes for his age – he looked a lot more haggard.

When Cullen emerged from the barracks, newly dressed in civilian clothing, they proceeded out of the jail and into the central market of Val Royeaux.

"What are you doing in Val Royeaux?" the Ferelden asked rather bluntly. They stood there amidst the bustle of people going about their day, picking out silk in one corner, in another, rushing to the chantry for the morning chant.

"I came on official business as Lord Seeker," she said.

Cullen laughed. So she had finally done it... rebuilt them and commanded them. Somehow, he was not so surprised.

"Many people are afraid Cullen. The fear has pushed the Chantry into action. Divine Victoria summoned me, and I suppose the time has finally arrived to reinstitute the Seekers." Cassandra's expression assumed a solemnity that was so like her. Neither was Cullen surprised that she referred to her former comrade before, during, and after the Inquisition by her official title.

Cullen's eyes squinted against the brightness of the midday sun. He had gotten used to the damp darkness of the jail. "I suppose I should be honored to have the Lord Seeker devote precious time to me." He smiled at his own joke, but his friend remained unamused.

Cassandra started walking, and Cullen felt he had no choice but to follow her. She clearly had something in mind other than bailing him out. He followed her towards the café, which was well populated at the time. Though many were lined up to speak with and be seated by the host, Cassandra merely walked past unimpeded. She had this planned out. They went to a secluded table in a corner of the café. It gave a good view of le marché in case any pedestrian ceased to blend in and warranted more alert suspicion. The seeker took her seat on the other side of the table. Cullen followed suit from across her. A long silence fell on them, and the former templar could tell his old friend was thinking over some words – the right words. He waited patiently as he had nothing else in store for the day.

After some moments, Cassandra exhaled deeply and looked up at him with a hint of apprehension. "What are you doing now Cullen?"

Cullen remained impassive. "Is there a right answer to that question?" He was not prepared for a lecture. In fact, he had absolutely no desire for one. He had his reasons, and none of them had rights to knowing them.

"No, there isn't," she aptly confessed, "But I am curious nonetheless." Her friend did not answer. He looked pensively at her, as if trying to read into her words like some cipher to be discerned. "I thought you would be looking for your son," she continued.

" _It_ is not my son." His response was swift and cutting. Cassandra slightly jumped. She had not expected that he'd fire such a condensed package of vitriol so readily.

"Oh?" Cassandra raised an eyebrow. This was news to her.

Cullen jeered in a restrained and defeated way. He had never voiced those words, not even to Dorian – his onerous and assigned-from-the-dead babysitter. "My son died along with my wife six years ago." His words were bitter, and Cassandra could see it stung him to say it.

"The child Solas left with..."

The vehement widower clenched his teeth. Cassandra could see his jaw protrude angrily from underneath his cheeks. His eyes darkened, casting a long shadow over his face. "...was not a child. It was the anchor in an infant's corpse. My son's corpse."

Somehow, Cassandra did not believe him. At least, she did not believe his interpretation of the events. She hadn't been there when Cullen and Lavellan stole away one night in search of the once allied apostate mage-turned-nemesis. She hadn't been there when her closest and dearest friend, the heroine she admired for her tenacity and strength, died in suffering she could not and did not want to imagine. What she had seen was a mere remnant of the horrific events. It was almost like it was yesterday. The images always played out when she thought of them: Cullen almost dead and embracing with what strength he had left a rotting corpse, the woman he once loved and called "Inquisitor," crusted in dried blood and missing an arm, both locked in a tower. No sign of a baby. No sign of Solas. Perhaps what Cullen said was true, or perhaps the trauma of that day twisted the reality of things. She was unsure, but she would not pronounce judgment on mere speculation. The only truths left were the former commander's suffering and the seeker's unrelenting regret that she had not been there for them... with them.

Her thoughts easily ran to the day, years before, when the two decided to elope in Halamshiral. She thought of the hope she had for them, bubbling with joy at the first sign Lavellan's life was getting easier and happier. It was too cruel to think how briefly that flame burned bright.

"I assume this means you are still looking for Solas." She remarked not without a stern look.

"Of course." His expression went from the tortured grief he briefly revisited to the steadfast assumption of duty. Cassandra was right after all. Cullen would never let go of himself so easily.

"That explains the Lyrium. Do you think you will find him on your own like this?" Though she referred to his newfound alcoholism, she could also be referring to anything else. Dorian had informed her, through worried letters, that Cullen had sunk into some stint of restrained debauchery. He frequented brothels, taverns, and often got into fights. The former commander looked calm and reserved for the moment, but there was some part of him that was still loose. The seeker was unsure how she would curb it.

"It helps me sleep," Cullen answered as if he reading his mind, though neither of them really knew what he meant by "it."

"It doesn't bother you at all? To think what Lavellan might..."

"Don't speak of her like that," he growled. His amber eyes flashed like lightning. A deep-seated hatred sat inside him. It was apparent to the Seeker. "Don't speak of what she 'might' think or say, had she been alive. She's dead, and has been for a long time now. There is no use in speculating." His words were surprisingly levelheaded and cold, as if no emotions factored into the logic behind his aversion.

Cassandra frowned. "I lost someone too, Cullen. She was my best friend too."

"So?"

"So it hurts me. Her loss hurts me." Cassandra's eyes fell on her lap. A sudden sadness engulfed her. Like a bursting dam, it was somewhat overwhelming. No tears emerged. There never were any. A silence swept their conversation, and it was suddenly impossible to move on. "It hurts me more to see you this way," she finally continued.

Cullen was fed up. He had no idea where this was going. She was only opening old wounds. "I am sorry," he said insincerely. He rose from his seat, hands planted firmly on the table to boost him up.

"Wait!" Cassandra looked up and held on to his hand. "Join us Cullen," she finally blurted out.

The ex-templar laughed heartily. He hadn't foreseen this turn, this twist in his old friend's plot. "Are the seekers in such disarray that they need me?"

Always in seriousness, the new lord seeker adopted her steady and grave frown. She assumed her commanding demeanor and spoke in brevity. "You are still a good fighter. People still remember you as a hero. Solas is more of a threat than we realize, and we need you for this."

Cullen pulled his hand away from Cassandra and shot her a disgusted look. "This is no good Cassandra," he answered. Before walking away, he relaxed his angered features and did his best to soften the blow. "Solas's spies extend beyond elves. He will infiltrate the seekers, as he did the Inquisition and any other force large enough to challenge him. It is best we work in the shadows." With those parting words, he walked away without saying goodbye. Cassandra moved to say something. Her lips were parted and ready to call for him back, but she didn't. Cullen's figure started to disappear into the crowd. Somehow she knew it was futile. Things had changed. He really was a broken man.

* * *

Lúthien trudged along behind the two men, her hands bound still in ropes. Pierre tugged at it whenever she slowed her pace. Dorian, who seemed to have more difficulty juggling the ethical ambiguity of the situation, kept his back facing her. Every once in a while, a pitiful glance would come his way, but there was an understanding between the mage and the elf. He too was helpless, lost in the woods if not for his guide. Tevinters can be practical too, and he did his best to convey that to his unintentional captive. At the head of the party, Pierre had one hand yanking at the rope like a leash and the other carrying her bow and quiver over the corresponding shoulder. Lúthien eyed her weapon covetously. The prospect of him stealing it or taking it from her was more horrifying than death itself.

As they walked along the dense woods, Lúthien mulled over the reality that a bit of her magic was backfiring. She intended to "seduce" (as one would call it) Dorian. Her magic was once able to bring about this enchanting lure, which almost worked on Cullen. She was still weak from her recent awakening, but even at her full power it never worked on men who bore no feelings, however small and repressed, of lust or sexual desire towards her. On the other hand, Pierre the pugnacious tracker was a little too eager for the bait. Every once in a while, he would cast a stern and terse glance at her, but it was not without some lascivious gleam in his eye. He made more of an effort to denigrate her with names, whether it was "knife ear" or "rabbit," but his expression betrayed the kind of energy coursing through his veins. When he followed, he prowled about like a wolf. Every gaze was hungry and ready for some sort of an attack. This fact worried her, to say the least.

"Which way?" Dorian asked, interrupting her train of thoughts. They came across a forked path, sharply divided by an overgrowth of swampy forestry. The elf nodded her head towards the path on the left. It led to a branch jutting out from the muddied waters before him, leading higher to another part of the mountain densely covered in herculean trees and over growth. Although Dorian asked, he never took her word without a grain of salt. He had no idea where he was going, and he let a stranger held against her will lead them on an unspoken the promise they would help a friend in common. His partner's treatment of her did not help things. Pierre plainly showed his disgust and distrust by ostensibly wrinkling a forehead or spitting from his mouth when Lúthien gestured in response. Sighing, Dorian hoped against all odds that whatever connection she had to his former commander, it was sincere. With a wave of his hand, he motioned for the other two to continue.

As they climbed the smooth surface of the branches, Dorian noticed the unique way Lúthien walked on the tree. She took spritely little steps, as if she was taking care not to step on fragile spots on the surface, whereas the tree seemed to groan under the men's weight. Their boots stomped hard... had he made the wrong decision?

"So rabbit," called out Pierre as he panted towards the incline, rope still in his hand. "Why don't you talk?" He turned with a sardonic smile to the elf, but she remained quiet and climbing as best she could without both of her free hands. Her pace was a little faster than theirs. She seemed to climb with great ease.

Her unresponsiveness made Pierre laugh in between breaths. "I take it you are somewhat deaf and dumb?" He meant it to provoke her, but she still looked like an impassive wall, blocking out his insults. Pierre smirked as he was a little enticed by her rebelliousness. Not too many rabbits care to challenge the hunter.

"You know, my Orlesian friend," Dorian interjected, "Perhaps you should be a little more courteous to our guide. You know, show her that famous Orlesian hospitality!" Dorian did what he could to inject humor or comedic relief for the sake of diffusing the tension in the air. Prejudice was such a poisonous thing, and the mage could feel the resentment it evoked from the elf.

Pierre guffawed once more, keeping in somewhat good though sinister spirits. "But Messere! She was going to attack us. That's why you fired. She may have what we are looking for, but that is no reason to trust her."

Dorian did not answer. He could tell his partner is getting a little intoxicated with the idea of having a young and vulnerable girl literally tied down on a leash.

After much arduous work, they reached a platform of wood where two branches intersected. Lúthien made a move to transfer over to another bridge-like branch. Dorian hated to think of it, but her graceful hop over really did remind him of a rabbit. Once both her feet landed, Pierre aggressively tugged at the rope. "Don't stray too far rabbit." Lúthien waited like a dutiful and resigned prisoner.

Dorian made the first jump. He placed the staff on his back and squatted low before swinging full force. With a thud, he landed waist up on the tree's trunk. He would have slipped over too, if not for Lúthien catching his arm and helping pull him over. A curl fell from the mage's head, which he suavely brushed back. "Well, thank you," he said with utmost politeness to his elven captive. She remained mute all the while.

Pierre wrapped the bow around his back so Lúthien would not dare to think to cause his fall somehow. They were indeed a very high climb. The impact could crush the bow if not have it lost to the abyss of the swamp grounds. The Orlesian took a step back before quickly running and jumping to the edge. Like his Tevinter client, Pierre landed torso up, his arms clinging to the bark of the branch. Yet he aptly pulled himself up, showing both of them his physical finesse and strength. The tracker then brushed himself off and readied himself.

Without a word, Lúthien proceeded to climb and they followed her as before.

"We should break for camp soon," said Dorian as a loud thought, but no one responded. He saw no end to the arborous path set before them. He would wonder at this wayward path, but would she not have tried something when they both jumped across the gap earlier? At least he felt no reason to personally distrust Lúthien. She had been aloof to him for the most part, and it was really only the careless mercenary who rattled her to the bone.

Around them the emerald green of lower elevation gave way to a brighter hue. Dorian could _see_ their height through the more scattered pockets of sunlight penetrating the dense woods. A cool mist wrapped around them, and somehow the late afternoon shone brighter than before.

Lúthien herself traveled with a heavy heart. She tried to move and react as mechanically as any woman in her situation could. Her initial retreat to the grove by the pond was a means for her to recollect after Cullen's outburst. She had not intended to leave him for so long, neither did she take joy in bringing these strangers who claimed friendship with him. For the entire day, a low and incoherent song whirred in her mind, nagging her about these anxieties she felt. Lúthien thought that since waking in the Veil, she would be less susceptible to the unknown of the Fade. Yet here she was, bombarded with emotions and urges towards a man she barely knew.

Did she know him?

Her amnesiac loss of memory used to be the least of her concerns. Displaced and replaced – she only thought of the man she saw in her dreams. A spirit implored her intervention, and that was how she rationalized caring for him for three days. Still, she could not deny some intimacy towards him that felt externally imposed. It was not sexual attraction – no, she barely knew him. It was some strange and strong desire to _protect_. But why? Lúthien bit her lip in nervousness. She wondered if something had gone wrong somehow, if only she knew.

"You know, it is interesting that you know our friend Cullen," began Dorian. His attempt at small talk disrupted the elf's brooding thoughts. "I presume you're Dalish, since you are not of the city and reside here in the Wilds," he slowly turned and nodded to Pierre, raising a bemused eyebrow at him, "Unlike our Orlesian friend here, Cullen did not see or treat elves differently from humans. In fact, your presence convinces me he loves them more. After all, he married one."

Lúthien listened attentively but did not respond. She only nodded in acknowledgement. Behind her, Pierre snorted with the same scratchy sound he used when he rolled his "r's."

"You mean the Inquisitor, messere Dorian?" Even Pierre's racism could not tarnish the fondly remembered Inquisitor. She had saved them all. For him, Lavellan proved the exception to the rule and not as a lesson in historical oppression.

Dorian heaved as he climbed a steep incline on the branch. "Why, yes. She was that too." A sorrowful and wistful look fell on his face. "She was a person too. Above all, a friend..." Lúthien sensed his despondency. In fact, she seemed to drink it in. It rang in the air like a withering tune, dying to be heard. But he could not speak it. It had to stay suppressed in the recesses of his checked emotions. Though she climbed in front of Dorian, she felt the burden of his unexpected and bittersweet sorrow on her shoulders. They stiffened, and suddenly she lost the will to continue climbing. What had happened? She heard the words "married" and "love" in their conversation. Now they spoke of a "she," a woman... Cullen once was married and loved a woman. A heaviness clumped in her chest when she realized that she had seen this woman in death. Was she the one who lay lifeless, pale, and with corrupted veins lining her skin? The thought of Cullen suffering such a tragedy weighed on her even more. Something Dorian said unwound her.

A knot wrenched in her belly, and a flash of screams echoed in her ears. Lúthien froze mid-climb and let out a pained groan. Both Dorian and Pierre, climbing below her, threw concerned glances at each other. "Lúthien!" the mage called out, but before she could answer, she let go of the branches to hug her waist. Somehow, her middle section writhed in agony. Her flesh burned, as if she was being torn in half. Blood rushed to her face, and the spike of adrenaline throbbed against her temples. She did not understand what was going on. Losing her grip, Lúthien could feel herself slowly falling, floating in the air.

With a swift movement of his hand, Dorian caught her by the hand. Lúthien dangled, but it was difficult for her to hold on. She was still shaking from the pain. Her jerky movements threatened to bring all of them down with her.

Pierre yelled out a disgusted "puh!" before yanking at his rope to help his Tevinter client. He pulled with one hand while the other held onto the branch. "Lazy rabbit!" Together, Dorian and Pierre lifted her up by both her hands. The Orlesian took the liberty of swinging her under his shoulder while he kept climbing with one hand. Dorian scooted up from above him. When he found a wider ridge to rest, he quickly pulled himself up before spinning around to help out the other two.

When they both got onto the platform, Pierre angrily dropped Lúthien over her shoulder. Her body fell limp. Concern poured over their faces.

"Hey!" the Orlesian shouted. "You do not get off by playing dead!" What had happened? One second she was dexterously navigating her way through the forest. The next, she suffered a seizure-like spasm and went lifeless.

Dorian turned her face towards him. Her eyes were closed. She looked as if she was rapt in serene sleep. His pressed against her forehead, feeling for her temperature. She was cold, but not deathly cold. He moved his hand down to the pulsing vein on her neck. There it was, blood breathing rhythmically through her veins. A sigh of relief escaped his lips. He glanced at Pierre, motioning him to move away. He delicately forced open one of her eyelids, and he noticed that her pupils were fully dilated. The once deep brown of her iris turned milky, almost grey. The eyes were still as if her soul had left nothing but an empty shell.

"Lúthien!" the mage hoped the shouting would somehow rouse her. No response.

Pierre was surprisingly silent. Not even an angry derogatory remark would enter his brain. The sky was getting darker, and the climb below them seemed vacuous. And above them? Where would they go afterwards? How would they haul her on this treacherous path? The questions raced between their minds, as if their minds connected in panic. A shadow fell, and suddenly the prospect of being lost dawned on them.

"Merde!" cursed Pierre. Livid, he threw the rope on the ground while Dorian continued focusing on their unconscious guide. "I knew I should not have taken this futile job! Missing person in the Wilds... what a load of shit!" He paced about in his frenzy, spitting off the ledge to make up for the lack of room.

"Calm yourself," the mage ordered. "There's no use panicking now." Though he maintained a calm exterior, a storm was actually brewing within Dorian. He used his magic to scan for any wounds or maladies ... _anything_ to determine what caused her bout of fainting, but nothing. She had no injuries whatsoever. Whatever occurred, it happened in her mind.

Beside him, Pierre slumped against the wall-like bark. His mask shone in the gleaming light of dusk, and underneath it, one could see beads of sweat slithering down his face. The exasperated tracker tugged at his frilly collar, for once more than a little annoyed at useless vanity.

"Give me water," commanded Dorian. The Orlesian wordlessly obeyed and threw a flask. The former caught it easily, but instead of taking a drink, he quickly bit off the cap and poured a little on Lúthien's face in hopes that the cold will wake her. When it did not work, he lightly slapped her cheeks, tapping once or twice to get some kind of reflex out of her. Soon, he too was losing his grip "Dammit, bloody woman!" He threw the flask to the side, and not-so-gently let her head rest on his lap. It was getting dark soon. The looming darkness would make it impossible to climb.

"How much time do you think we have until sun down?" Dorian asked Pierre. They both scanned their surroundings. The ledge was not enough room. If they fall asleep, one accidental budge could push the other off the ledge.

Pierre tired to peer between the foliage of the gigantic trees for sunlight. Based on the color of the sky, its blue quickly turning to a tint of pink, he did not have high hopes. "Perhaps an hour, if not less."

Dorian sighed. It was just his luck, but a decision had to be made. They could stay there. Wyverns, demons, or the like could still pounce at them from where they are. The experienced mage was not unaware of the energy buzzing through the ancient forest, and it worried him since he began the expedition. His mind shot back to Cullen, hoping to telepathically convey well-deserved vitriol: _you better be alive, bloody bastard!_ "Quick give me the rope," he held out his hand. Again, Pierre obediently gave it, indifferent to what he will do. Dorian lifted Lúthien, her weight surprisingly light, and swung her over his shoulders. "Help!" he said with a groan.

Pierre quickly rose and adjusted Lúthien so her arms were both over his shoulders. Dorian's hands wrapped around her thighs so that they were around his waist. She looked as if she was unconsciously riding him piggy-back style. Any man would have found this somewhat awkward and ... compromising, but luckily Dorian was, first of all, not just any man. Second of all, his thoughts never wandered there. They belonged to someone else, someone far... In his youth, he would say "I prefer the company of men." Now, it was merely one man – a certain horned beast with unrelenting humor. Fasta vass! Bull would never let him hear the end of it!

"Tie the rope so she's fastened to me," he said, slightly straining as he held her weight on his back.

Pierre looked at him questioningly. "Would it not be better to leave her?"

"I am astounded Pierre," Dorian remarked jocularly. "You would abandon a damsel in distress? I thought you Orlesians had more chivalry than that... no matter that you're a hired thug."

The tracker rolled his eyes from behind his mask and did as he was commanded. He felt somewhat of a titillating shock when he grasped one of her thighs so he could wind the rope around it over Dorian's waist. Weaving it around, Pierre further adjusted her position, nudging her curves so she was appropriately bound. He had never really found the idea of touching an unconscious woman arousing. In fact, he never thought of such a situation before! But there was something nagging at him since they had found her and took her captive. He did not know whether it was the supple shape of her arse or the slender neck propped between such milk-skinned shoulders. She was a savage, yes, but an exotic one – delectable to his eyes. When he grew up as vassal to Marquis d'Ambreuse, he had seen his master take by force many an Elven maid. They were servants, beneath such noble tastes, but they found themselves magnetized nonetheless. Their voracious appetites never tired of the thrill of conquering a proud yet impoverished elf!

Dorian, on the other hand, was glad to have quickly volunteered to carry the elf. Already he could tell Pierre was taking a bit of his time, no doubt salivating like some hungry wolf and relishing in his fantasized violation. He turned away, slightly disgusted.

When Pierre felt the elf was fastened tightly enough to the Tevinter's back, he picked up the rest of their things. As for Dorian, he rose on both feet easily enough. The challenge would be whether he could grip for long on the rough edges of the bark, given the added weight. He would have to try.

Far off in the distance, a loud and shrill cry echoed in the air. Shadowed wings fluttered against it, and suddenly it felt like plenty of eyes were glued on them. Nocturnal creatures have come to rise. They would need to hurry and find shelter. Dorian proceeded wordlessly. Right hand first, left hand second, right foot next, and left foot last, he motioned his way upwards as the dainty and unconscious elf dangled behind him. To bear this unexpected burden, Dorian constantly told himself this was penance for whatever sins the maker thought he committed. That, or it was his fault for not inviting the Iron Bull as he himself suggested when news first came of his decision to find Cullen. How he regretted that decision! The massive Qunari warrior would have been able to lift Lúthien no problem.

As the two climbed at their snail's pace, the shrill cry returned, but this time closer. Dorian looked around him nervously. Sweat beaded down his nose and temples, struggling under the weight. Pierre slowly followed behind him, ready to catch one of them should an accident befall them. Yet that proved to be a small comfort. Clearly something was already lurking behind them, and sunlight was fading.

A whistle rang in his ear, and Dorian thought he saw something flit by in the corner of his eye. As if by instinct, Dorian mustered his energy and immediately cast a spell with the wave of his hand. A large, globular cocoon of hard ice formed around the three as they clung on the tree bark for dear life.

"T'es putain de cinglé! Are you mad?!" Pierre roared. Before Dorian could answer, a large thud hit the ice wall right in the center. Already their wintry fortress began to crack.

"Something's with us Pierre!"

By the word, Pierre immediately unsheathed his sword. When the second thud hit, the ice wall shattered, but Dorian immediately set up a mana barrier with another wave of his hand. "It's not as strong without my staff, so get a move on it!" The Orlesian did not have to think twice. He climbed rapidly, even with one sword in hand, and began to overtake Dorian and his load. The mage did not resent him for it, however. What he may have lacked in physical strength, Dorian more than made up for with magic.

Another whistle flew by his ear, and he could see the barrier pulse under a barrage of attacks. Dorian looked up, and he saw the tree slanted towards another branch, forming an intersectional clearing where they could fight on firm ground. With another wave of his hand, he cast another spell. This time, a flash of blue emanated from him and Lúthien, fade stepping out of their more precarious situation towards the summit of the arborous wall. The move was risky, for it drained all his energy just to do it. The barrier was about to burst for having lost its fuel...

Before Dorian could make his next move, he felt a hand grab his arm. Pierre, standing on the new ledge of that clearing, picked up the mage and his ward by the hand. The Tevinter magister kicked his feet off the trunk to propel him upward, both of them landing with a thud. Relief almost kicked in, but another shrill cry rattled the party. In one swift motion, Dorian quickly swiped a small knife from his boot and cut loose the rope that tied Lúthien to him. Still unconscious, she fell to the ground, making a harsh noise against the bark of the tree. Free of the burden, Dorian drew out his staff and set up another barrier. Pierre, on the other hand, stood firm with his one sword though regrettably without a shield to complement his stance. Dorian could see that he discarded Lúthien's weapons, setting it by her side. To ensure her safety, the mage cast another ice wall around her – this time with the help of his staff.

"Where's the bastard?!" snarled Pierre.

As if to answer his prayers, another whistle flew by, and the two prepared for a battle.

* * *

Cullen looked over his side when he heard a voice calling. He was tempted to ignore it, to cast it aside as one of the many hallucinations lyrium withdrawals could induce. He had been climbing down for what seemed like hours since he last passed through the Eluvian. His shoulder burned, and he could see green puss oozing down his injured limp. Yet he remained steadfast and fully resolved to find a way out. After all, he still had a promise to keep. Another call rang in the air. Hallucinations sound like disembodied voices tugging at his brain. This one sounded distant, as if it had a real source to be followed. It came from below him, further down. He could not tell what that was voice and what it said. It was like a sustained and intermittent note that plagued his ears.

At a certain point, he started to wonder how tall the trees he walked and climbed were. Not only were they gigantic enough to withstand humans walking on its branches, but they also seemed to snake along the mountain of the Wilds (was he in the Wilds?). The Frostback Basin could not even boast such titanic trees.

Cullen stopped. A sporadic pain from his shoulder speared through his body. The jolting sensation caused his foot to slip on an indentation on the bark. His lightning reflexes spurred both his arms to hug the trunk, thereby saving him from an abyssal fall. He was straining himself, and especially his wound. Whatever he needed to do, he had to do it quickly before his body gave in. He exhaled deeply and steadied himself for the next movement. This was nothing. He had been through worse and survived worse. Closing his eyes, he concentrated his strength in dulling the nagging pain.

There.

The wounded man continued his trek, hoping for the best – whatever that may be.

Soon, the descent started to slant away from its vertical path to a sort of incline. He could feel his muscles relaxed when his feet were able to stand flatfooted on the branch. Across the distance, Cullen saw the background of the sky turn darker, but sporadic flashes of bright light disturbed the overall red palette of the atmosphere. It was coming from further down below. Those bright lights, the patterns they were making, and the way they glowed in the distance... that was familiar to Cullen, especially as a Templar. A frown formed on his lips. A mage was fighting down there. His right hand immediately felt for the handle of his sword, squeezing it tight. He had not prepared for another fight, not so soon after days of inactive coalescence. It seemed as if the Forest was doing its best to make him fight for every second he breathed.

The warrior's ears perked up when, during his descent, he heard a muffled yell. "I can do this all day!" Another blue flash and a muted blast pervaded the air. Cullen almost laughed – almost. He shook his head somewhat in disbelief. _He came all this way?!_ The Tevinter mage never knew when to give up. Try as he may to present himself as an aloof and too-busy-for-you nobleman, Cullen knew and had always known Dorian had a soft spot. For years he concealed an affair with The Iron Bull, and then came the weekly calls to Lavellan through the Sending Crystal he gave her. He loved his friends. That much was true.

As Cullen approached the scene of bright lights, the sounds were becoming more disturbing. He heard a shrill cry – a familiar screech piercing the night. His hand instinctively reached for his scarred shoulder. It was that demon again, or, perhaps, another one?! He could have sworn that Lúthien killed the one he encountered. How else could she haul his fatally injured and unconscious body, up a winding arbor path, and through an eluvian? Something was not right at all.

The seasoned warrior crouched low. He relied on the shadows to conceal his limping form and kept to the edges of the path he walked. A larger clearing loomed in site gated by a bulwark of larger trees doming above them. He saw part of a branch jutting out like a boulder towards the edge of the path. Cullen quickly ran to it and peered from behind.

Below him an amorphous yet large creature, colored pitch black, with innumerable knife like legs stood over a swordsman pummeled to the ground. Cullen could see his mana barrier almost shattering as the creature tried to pierce through it with its obsidian-like talons. "Be gone with you!" Off to the periphery, Cullen recognized Dorian who stood in perfect form as he cast spell after spell, shooting bolts of elemental blasts at the creature to ward him away from the swords man. As his magister's dance came full circle to its finishing move, a larger and blinding flash blasted from his staff and sent the creature flying across the platform. It let out a horrible banshee's scream.

"About time Messere!" called out the other swordsman as he recollected himself and stood again. Cullen did not know this man, but he identified the Orlesian mask veiling his face. An Orlesian noble was with him? Scanning the area, he saw that a smaller dome of ice surrounded by a cerulean mist formed a few feet away from both fighters. He raised an eyebrow, wondering if Dorian had been protecting something.

Their reprieve was cut short. Soon after, another whistle blew past all their ears followed by an earsplitting cry. Dorian cast another mana barrier. "Here!" he shouted out. The mage threw a small bottle of healing potion, which the Orlesian warrior effortlessly caught. Without a word, he emptied the bottle's contents and threw the glass off the edge.

"Thank you, friend," the Orlesian said as he tried to catch his breath.

"Don't call me friend yet!"

The shadowy creature returned, prowling like a lion as its circled its prey. The Orlesian backed up to Dorian, staying close to the mage in case it indeed pounced towards them. Cullen hovered closer to the edge of the branch from which he hid. Stealth was never his forte, but he prayed both to the Maker and his late wife that he would remain undetected. A second wave flashed, and Dorian struck the first blow. He sent another ice wall to corral the monster in a wintry cage. The powerful mage then followed his move with an even more potent spell. The air around them grew cold, and Cullen could feel his breath turn to ice. The mage was creating a blizzard. Dorian focused all of his energy into the larger ice wall and did his best to chill the enemy frozen. The creature shrieked as it felt its knife-like legs stuck frozen to the clearing ground.

For a second, they all caught a sigh of relief, thinking the worst was almost over. But the air grew dark and heavy around them. When Dorian was about to turn toward his Orlesian comrade, an explosion sundered the ice wall from within. A shadow wrapped around them, and the familiar whistle of its lightning speed raced in their ears. Cullen edged away to avert the blast's impact, but when he turned back to the scene of battle, the Orlesian lay unconscious to the side, presumably suffering a blow to his head. Dorian, on the other hand, was disarmed. He lay on the ground, crouched beneath the demon as his hands struggled against the pincers working to devour him. He was almost like a weakened yet persistent ant battling a ravenous spider.

Adrenaline pumped in Cullen's veins when he saw his friend's compromised position. He crouched low before jettisoning himself off the ledge. He aimed exactly by the creature's head, where the pincers protruded, and swung with his sword as he gracefully descended in the air. The metal made a scratching noise as it cut through the demon's coarse and leathery exterior. A limb from its head fell off – one of its many talons – and a dark liquid burst from its wound.

Dorian took a second to pause and take in the action. One moment he was nearing death and in the next he was rescued by an unexpected friend. Life was always full of surprises. The mage seized the opportunity and rose from the ground, quickly running to where his staff lay. Cullen, on the other hand, did not relent or pause. He continued striking a combination of blows against the monster, his ripostes and parries resembling the finesse of heroic knights. The warrior himself was exhilarated and undaunted by the pain radiating in his right shoulder.

Once the mage grabbed hold of his staff, he joined Cullen in his violent dance. With one deft sweep he felt a powerful blast of ice that shot and pierced the Creature at its center. It let out an agonizing death rattle. It was reeling and receding towards this shadow. In a swift coup de grace, Cullen felled his sword and beheaded it, ending the screams of death.

"Now I know why she had a thing for strapping young templars," Dorian remarked cheekily from the side.

Cullen turned to him with a questioning raise of his brow. "What was that?"

Dorian laughed as he panted heavily. Both his hands leaned against his knees, crouched low in exhaustion. "Oh nothing, just something I find adorable about you." He had used those words before in his first admission to Lavellan that he knew what she was up to.

The warrior shrugged as wiped the sweat from his brow. He was used by now to the Tevinter's coded use of language. "It's good to see you too." He ambled up to Dorian and gave him a hand. The mage took Cullen's hand into his and firmly grasped it.

Dorian shot him a disapproving look once he realized what a sorry state Cullen was in. His clothes were a little tattered, dirtied from perhaps days trapped in the wilds. He could see blood crusted on his right shoulder, and darkened puss continued to ooze down from it. His fingers were blistered and bleeding, perhaps from a day's worth of unhealthy climbing. He wondered where his friend had been all along and the story he might tell about it.

Cullen saw how upset Dorian was and the silence he resorted to. "I'm fine," the older man said curtly.

Dorian let out an exasperated sigh and began looking for a poultice in his pack. "If your wife were alive, she would..."

"Kill me, I know." Cullen interrupted. "If she were alive, I probably wouldn't be here." Dorian knew Cullen well enough to understand that his words were an attempt to be snarky. The former commander always had a very dry and awkward sense of humor.

"Neither would I," the mage managed in response. "Yet here I am, stuck babysitting you. I would never have made her that promise if I knew my life would be dedicated to chasing you around in every corner of Thedas."

Cullen was about to continue the banter, almost forgetting the unconscious and injured around them. But the high-pitched whistle shot up in their ears again. Both men turned to where they last saw the demon. It was gone. Both fighters resumed their stance. They brought their backs together, instinctively rotating their circle so they could catch sight of the shadowy creature.

A dark shadow irrupted from their corner, and as they turned to face it, a dark shade swept their eyes and they felt a sharp blow pummel them backwards, flying feet into the air. Cullen found himself faced once more with the dark jowls jutting out of the amorphous shadow menacing them with its countless talons. Dorian too was pinned down, one of its talons piercing one of his pauldrons but missing his flesh. "Blasted cunt!" the mage yelled out. Cullen snickered while wrestling with the talons that inched closer and closer to his face. He wondered where the Tevinter diplomat learned to profane so smoothly and so freely. Somehow, he found their near-death situation a little more than amusing.

When both their arms shook in weakness, starting to cave in to the monster's unrelenting stress, a familiar gleam shot from the corner of their eyes. A powerful arrow whistled by and struck the demon right from its jowls. Its sharp talons set both fighters free, letting them scurry away on fours before rushing to their feet and retrieving their weapons. Cullen spun behind him and saw Lúthien, standing a few feet from a shattered dome of ice. She had her bow in hand, still holding it up from the full draw she fired.

The demon reeled back, almost receding to the shadows from the sheer pain. Dorian turned in awe, swearing in Tevene at another unexpected rescue. Both he and Cullen thought she was to draw another arrow from her quiver and deal the finishing blow, but instead she sheathed her weapon by placing it on her back. Her feet were planted squarely on the ground as she held out her left hand – a posture that seemed a little too familiar to both Inquisition veterans. With a flick of her wrist, a beam emanated from her fist. It was bright green like veilfire, and both men could see the monster begin to disintegrate like crystalline embers as they were sucked back into her hand. As Lúthien used her magic like a powerful vacuum reeling in the creature, both Dorian and Cullen struck their weapons onto the arborous platform and held on for dear life. They too were being pulled in. As a flash of green light swept over them all, the monster finally vanished – like demons returning to a rift – into the palm of her hand, and the air blasted out a sonic wave when Lúthien snapped it shut. A massive wall of silence fell over them, and the fatigued elf could not help but fall to her knees and pant in fatigue.


	5. Chapter 5

Note on the Elven: I used a translator from lingojam/ElvenDAI to write the Elven in this story. Lúthien's name is from a different universe, that of J.R.R. Tolkien's _The Silmarillion_. I do not own any of these aforementioned intellectual properties.

* * *

"Here, an apple." An apple promptly fell on Lúthien's lap.

Her delicate fingers wrapped around the cold, hard, round fruit. "Apple?" she mimed quite innocently. The elf timidly looked up from where she was sitting. Before her stood Cullen, tall and domineering as her small figure crouched low by the hollow of a tree. She had been alienating herself from the party that past few days. The distance was like some sort of barrier that, up until now, none of them had dared impinge on.

"I heard your stomach growl. You're hungry, so I brought you an apple." Cullen's demonstration of his logic and reasoning was beyond correction. "You should eat it." His conclusion was even more compelling, but somehow it was like the flawless argument fell on deaf ears. Lúthien merely gave the apple a turn on her wrist. She rotated it like an object of inquiry, ready to explore and investigate.

"It's not poisoned," the warrior remarked, as if her hesitation had anything to do with that. Sensing the urgency in his voice, Lúthien had no choice but to bite in. She parted her lips – the once pink lushness turned chapped from days of low resources and traveling – and bared out her pearly white teeth. With a sudden crunch, her mouth dug in the fruit's savory ripeness.

"Good?" he asked.

"Good," she answered with mouth still full.

And so comprised but a sample of Cullen and Lúthien's daily interactions after several days spent traveling. He began with a premise that somehow, one way or another, taught the elf a new word in Common Tongue. When the lesson goal seemed accomplished, Cullen would conclude with the one word – both a question and an answer – the elf was receptive to. It was always, "good" with her.

From across the camp, Dorian shot the pair sitting by the fire a bemused quirk of the brow, curling the tip of his suavely shaped mustache. He watched as their words were drowned out by the crack of burning kindle. In all these years, Cullen had finally shed that brittle shell of awkwardness, casting aside his fear of speaking personally and tersely with others – especially women. Since Lavellan's death, he had probably seen Cullen three times in total. Each time he had to bail him out of _something_ , whether it be a jail for brawling or an imperial dungeon for smuggling. It had honestly put him at wit's end. This time was an exception, of course; a special mission given by the newly ordained Lord Seeker Cassandra. The missive hadn't been delivered. The former commander himself hadn't been debriefed. It had to wait. Time was too delicate, and they had a prisoner, seemingly mute and oblivious though clearly aware and discerning, to look after.

"Seems to like the rabbit, does he?" Pierre settled into a spot next to the mage. He crossed his legs together as his hands busily worked a knife against a potato – peeling with the ferocity of a hungry and disappointed wolf. "Maybe the commander has a thing for them..." There was a hint of rancor in the Orlesian's musings, one that did not escape Dorian's notice. The mage remained quiet and simply watched the two.

As Lúthien nibbled away on the fresh apple, Cullen took out his oilcloth and produced dried Fennec meet from the game they caught the day before. He bit into a strip and wrenched it away with his clenched teeth. After hardily chewing on the piece, he held out and offered the remaining strip to the elf. "Meat?"

She smiled, albeit shyly, before shaking her head with a wave of her hand – as if the gesture could brush the disgusting piece away from existence. "No meat."

Cullen merely shrugged. "Interesting. You reject every meal we give you with meat."

Lúthien did not respond. She focused her attention on the apple that gave her soft and unused teeth a bit of work.

"I thought the Dalish liked to hunt," he continued, as if there was a conversation to continue. He watched as she kept the core of the apple suspended at the tips of all her fingers from both hands. She nibbled delicately around the core, carefully avoiding seeds and letting the juice drip down from the corner of her mouth. She ate somewhat religiously. "My wife... she liked to hunt. She said her goddess hunted, or taught the Elves to hunt." He turned his head to her knapsack and nodded to the glimmering bow set beside it. " _You_ like to hunt."

Lúthien saw he was gesturing to her bow. "Enansal Andruil," she said nonchalantly in explanation.

Cullen nodded. Every so often, Lúthien would actually answer him in Elvhen, but instead of conveying his ignorance or confusion, he merely nods respectfully. The behavior recalled those days oh so long ago when he was a studious Chantry boy training to be a Templar, of times when even his acumen could not get him through the incomprehensibility of ancient scriptures. Clerics would throw him a question to test his ability and aptitude, but all he would manage was a meager nod that indicative of his failure to adequately concentrate on his studies. Still, he recognized the name couched in her phrase. "Andruil? She was Lavellan's god, or guardian. I may not remember as well." His hand reached for the back of his neck, nervously scratching the never-ending nervous itch and somewhat embarrassed of his own lack of knowledge. "Her vallaslin honored Andruil." Upon uttering those words, Cullen became painfully aware once more that Lúthien lacked those definitive markings. He remembered the day when Lavellan appeared in the War Room without hers after a brief moment with Solas in the Fade. Cullen's jaws tensed and his brows creased a little. He wondered if any of it had anything to do with each other.

"Lavellan?" The sound of his late wife's name riding off Lúthien's tongue startled Cullen. The woman looked at him with doe-eyed curiosity. Perhaps she realized just how often he talked about her – a constant name, a sound, that intermittently brought itself to conversation. Cullen blushed, slightly embarrassed. He never spoke of his wife to anyone after she died. In fact, it was a subject he vehemently avoided during and after his period of mourning. Yet this other elf's presence seems to tug at those secrets, pulling them out from far beneath his consciousness. Cullen felt the urge to talk about Lavellan like some point of common interest, or a shared secret, between the two of them. Or perhaps it was precisely because Lúthien did not know Lavellan, had no knowledge of the Inquisition, and thus had no pity to shower him with every time he spoke of her that made him so willing.

"Yes, Lavellan was my wife's maiden name," he responded slightly nervous. "Her first name was Ellana, but she liked to keep that secret." Cullen chuckled, realizing he had so easily divulged this intimate secret. His eyes dropped down to the ground, impulsively grabbing for his oilcloth to look for more of the dried fennec strip. Perhaps with food in his mouth, it would run less.

A sly smile crept up Lúthien's lips. She could sense the embarrassment in his voice. "Lavellan den mar vhenan?"

Cullen smiled, somewhat elated that another person could so easily capture how he felt about the late Inquisitor. He recognized that phrase. _Ma vhenan. Mar vhenan_. "Yes, Ellana Lavellan was ma vhenan." Saying it was enough to almost wash the sadness away, the sadness of losing her all over again every time he admitted to himself how much she truly meant to him. For a second, he looked wistfully into the air and almost lost himself in another reminiscent reverie. His new companion, being a perceptive elf, bit her lower lip in a silencing act. Cullen could tell his expressions were making her nervous.

"A bit chatty today aren't we?" Dorian crept up behind them as he made his disruptive yet cavalier entrance. Behind him followed Pierre, who had a resentful frown on his lip from underneath the mask. Neither Cullen nor Lúthien said a word in response. It was as if their little bout of camaraderie, their moment of exchanging secrets and speaking in their coded language, was rained on. "How's your shoulder?" the mage asked the former commander, changing the subject. He sat in between him and Lúthien, crisscrossing his legs comfortably. Pierre himself took a position next to Cullen, which distanced him quite a bit from the elf, but it gave him a direct view across from her. That was how the Orlesian preferred things – a distance whereupon he can be watchful.

Cullen gave the injured limb a slight shrug. "Alright. Recovering well." He had strained it two days before when they fought the Shadow Creature Lúthien so easily dispatched with her... magic. The wound reopened, and a second set of stitches had to be sewn in – a procedure that the elf for some reason shied away from. The Tevinter mage gave his hand a try, poultice and all, and his job was fledgling at best.

The elf was a little more wary in the presence of the other two humans, and it made things awkward. The uncomfortable silence became a bit overbearing. One could hear the slight crunch of Lúthien's teeth against the core of her apple, the violent tug Cullen's teeth gave when he bit off a strip of the dried Fennec meat, or the clinking sound of Pierre's flask when he downs a heavy fall of whiskey down his throat. The cackle of the fire broke the silence as its light danced in the shadows. Cullen's honey-colored eyes stared agape at the fire, somewhat seduced by its dance. He thought of the screeches that howled in the air the previous times he encountered the demon. He thought of the burst of green flame when Lúthien seemed to have absorbed its energy into her body. Lost in pensive thought, Cullen wondered about the larger forces at work. How did a simple job scouring ruins for riches turn to this? What's worse, he knew Dorian was keeping silent about something. He would not have come all this way to simply rescue the self-destructive Lyrium addict just to bring him back. Yet Cullen decided to let the mage bide his time. The truth would come out sooner or later.

Cullen reached for his waterskin and took a huge and aching gulp, but even after the feigned sigh of quenched thirst, the inside of his mouth still felt powdery and cracked. Today marked the sixth day he went without lyrium, and he knew full well who had the last remaining phial. Looking over above the fire, the golden light of the flames shone against Lúthien's skin like copper, eyeing the pouch tied to her waist belt. Somehow, he was more "okay" than he thought he would be after having been forced to go cold so soon. For the moment, he decided to lay those anxieties aside for as long as he could. The elf before him shifted uncomfortably as she sensed his focused gaze. The unwanted attention made her cheeks burn hot, turning them into a pale shade of pink.

Dorian noticed how neither his old friend Cullen nor his newer and more mysterious friend Lúthien could keep their figurative hands off each other. Though their eyes averted one another at times, their body language squiggled every which way as if to show how uncomfortable and awkward it was to be so close yet so unfamiliar with one another. True, the elf herself was somewhat magnetizing. If he himself were not so inclined towards men, he may have been in the same covetous position as the Orlesian Pierre, who was slowly descending into rapt intoxication with every swig of the flask. Since Lúthien had rescued them from the Shadow Demon and Cullen was at last found, Pierre barely let a word fly out his mouth. It was like he knew he could not be so vociferously prejudiced without incurring the anger of the famed has-been commander of the Inquisition. Still, the mage was painfully aware of the Orlesian's glowering underneath the mask, how his jowls clamped in hard-bitten envy... a wolf robbed of its prey. Dorian wondered how Cullen was unable to hear the snarls rumbling under Pierre's breath.

Although Cullen made it clear he himself did not know Lúthien, that he had just met her a day before they did, brief as it was, he found that neither Dorian nor Pierre were convinced. Somehow, he became complicit in this secret little game the elf was playing, and the fact that Dorian, having a penchant for grandstanding and attention seeking, was reticent proved his suspicions true. They long ceased trying to understand the events of the clearing, the creature they fought, and the mystery of Lúthien herself. She understood without making herself understood, unable to convey to them the truth of her existence. What plagued Cullen, however, was her ready acceptance of the former Templar. She listened to him, sometimes beamed at him, like some naive and infatuated child. But Maker knows he wanted none of it. Dorian, on the other hand, always kept a close eye, like a protective Father wanting to separate a chaste daughter from her temptations. Pierre, however, suffered from a gleam of envy. Cullen could always feel his glares, his huffs and puffs... Despite the mask he donned, the Orlesian read very well and loudly. Pierre distrusted the elf while resenting Cullen for his companionship with her. Sitting in a circle with such reluctant companions irritated him to no end, and for a second, he jokingly wondered if the Circle of Magi was just as awkward and tense.

"It's getting late," Cullen announced, although the sky was still of a slight orange hue in the midst of sunset. The other three looked at him nonplussed, Lúthien most of all attentive to whatever was going on in his head. "I'll..." he stammered, a little thrown off by their glue-eyed attention. "I'll get ready for bed now." Yet contrary to his words, Cullen merely marched off the expansive ridge where their camp was situated. He trailed back up a path led by a jutting root of what could have been a titanic tree, wandering to disappear in the forest.

Dorian and Pierre looked at each other. "Interesting choice of a bed," Pierre commented.

Lúthien immediately rose, motioning to follow. Yet she stopped herself the moment a foot inched forward...She hadn't thought of following him, neither was she planning on it. As she stood before Dorian and Pierre motionless, spotlighted by the flame of their campfire, her previously reddened hue blossomed into blood-like heat.

"Making your bed as well?" Pierre mocked. From underneath his mask, his eyes glowed a little at the thought of making the elf squirm.

Lúthien scowled. She understood him, yet she knew she missed part of his meaning with the way he was grinning. Was it the way she blushed? Her sudden state of flustered indecision? Her inability to act calmly and with clarity? No matter. In their brief time together, the masked shemlen constantly harassed her – calling her animal names with utmost acrimony. His behavior only worsened after she had saved them all. At that point Pierre kept his childish name calling and abuse to himself, but he nonetheless acted cold or cast a menacing glare her way. If anything, the act won all of their distrust. The mage behaved with unease around her, often casting a side-glance to Cullen when they interacted.

"Leave her alone, Pierre," Dorian ordered with a roll of his eyes. He leaned back with his elbows on the grass. After letting out a tired yawn, the mage looked up at the still-standing Lúthien. " _Are_ you going anywhere, my lady?"

The elf appreciated his playfulness. She gently shook her head and looked towards the path Cullen took. A worried look wrinkled the petal soft skin on her forehead.

"Is something the matter?" Dorian pressed.

Again, Lúthien merely shook her head in gentle refutation. The mage sat up to determine the direction of her gaze. He smiled mischievously after noticing the path her eyes followed. "If you're worried about Cullen, I suggest you cease and desist. He needs to be left alone too." He ended his advice with a soft chuckle in his throat. Dorian then proceeded to sit cross-legged and stare into the fire. Running his fingers through the soft grass, he felt the prickliness of a small, severed branch. Taking it in hand, Dorian stabbed into the fire with the piece of wood. He toyed with the kindling, turning it over every which way so every fiber and every piece of its being disintegrated in the flames. "He's been through a lot. As I'm sure, we've all been through a lot..."

Lúthien nodded in her own serene understanding. She sensed the melancholy in his voice – stifled yet wanting to make itself heard. The elf lowered herself and knelt before the fire as Dorian played with the embers of the kindle. Pierre eyed her curiously, watching as her soft brown eyes deepened into a darker hue, almost black, as she seemed to breathe in the sad air around the mage. A slight tingling in the air crawled on his neck, and a breeze seemed to walk past the three of them. The elf was orchestrating something, he knew it in the back of his mind, but words knotted in his throat. Sweat crawled down Pierre's nose, sickening him from beneath the mask.

"I heard you talk about Lavellan with him," Dorian began. Pierre snapped out of his hypnotized state once he heard the mage's words. Lúthien remained kneeling and eager to listen. "It's funny, because that's the first I heard of him speak so happily with someone else about her since she died." The fire glowed against Dorian's olive-hued skin. The circles under his eyes appeared slightly darker, marring his otherwise smooth and regal face. "Imagine being a young man married to the most powerful woman in the world. Imagine being the Commander of her forces, watching her rise to power, maintain it, and vanquish her enemies against all odds..."

"It's a pretty picture, messere." Pierre interrupted, but it was only because he knew the story all too well. He remembered being a jovial youth enamored with the Inquisition, how they bravely saved and protected the Empress from the evil lurking in Halamshiral, how the Inquisitor valiantly stood up against the Eldar One, liberating the Emprise du Lion, the Emerald Graves, the Exalted Plains... He did not need a reminder of all he fawned over.

Dorian sighed. "Imagine believing yourself to be at fault, because you were so tired and desperate to get away from all that..."

Lúthien breathed heavily. Her eyes dilated into an abyssal black. Pierre could feel how tense her body got. It seemed to choke him as well, straining his breathing, and making his veins throb with the rush of blood coursing through his body. "No." Her voice hummed low from the base of her throat. Both shemlens jumped in astonishment, hearing her speak to them in the Common tongue.

"No what?" Dorian finally managed. He threw the stick he was toying with into the fire, feeling the crack of its twigs against his face as he turned towards Lúthien, but she merely stared him down and shook her head with the same gentleness as before.

"No," she repeated. "Fault? No."

Both Pierre and Dorian looked at each other with a slight hint of disbelief. "I was talking about Cullen..." Dorian hastily added. "He married the Inquisitor after all, knocked her up, and that's where it all became the moronic tragedy that it is."

Pierre too was curious at the swirl of emotions the mage was divulging. "Are you angry with him, messere?"

"What?! No!" Dorian let out another sigh. He wondered why he was uncontrollably airing out long-suppressed reservations and emotions since the death of his closest – or perhaps only? – friend. Somehow, he found himself facing Lúthien once more, and the deep black pool that raged in her eyes seemed to give him strength. "I'm angry at myself, like we all were. We weren't there for them... for her. She died alone and in pain. None of us could... _I_ could never forgive myself for that." Upon confessing those feeling, a lightness entered Dorian's chest. The heat of the flame before him became less pressing, less consuming, and he felt a warm glow bubble forth from his stomach. His eyes widened, a little shocked at the release. He looked at Lúthien, who stayed kneeling nonchalant as if nothing of significance was ever brought out. Dorian smirked and curled the tip of his mustache with a finger. "I can see why he likes talking to you," he added impishly.

In the silence Pierre took another swig of his whiskey. The last drop. He sighed, yawning a little now that the heaviness in the air seemed to have evaporated. His eyes turned uneasily to the quiet elf. Quiet, stoic, reserved. Heady with the strong spirits, he wondered why he was so drawn to her and why, despite his constant abuse of her race, he seemed to quiver or even drown in those deep and sorrowful black pools melding in her eyes.

As for the elf, Lúthien had her mind on the present, or perhaps even the more uncertain future. She looked off into the distance where Cullen disappeared, deep into the bulwark of trees nestled with glowing fireflies.

* * *

The thirst in his mouth went from powdery dry to an aching sharpness in his throat. Cullen ran to a brook flowing underneath a hollowed out groove of a tree. Desperately, he dipped his head in its cool waters, opening his mouth to drink its frigid sweetness. His face felt cold, colder than the snow at Haven; colder than the brisk morning air from his quiet, dingy little room in Skyhold; colder than her hand when she gave her last breath. With a gasp, Cullen pulled himself out of his submerged reverie. His opened his mouth and sucked in, filling his lungs with the forest's warm air. Looking up, he saw the pink sky above had already turned into a deep blue, dark like the ocean riddled with the numerous, pale flame of distant stars. He had been gone long. He wasn't sure how long, but it was quite a ways and a whiles away.

"Ma vhenan." He whispered those words, words he never told her but instead Lavellan unceasingly said to him in the dark of night, in the silent folds of pillows, by the glow of candlelight. _Ellana Lavellan was ma vhenan_. Why had he said that? To a stranger, of all people? Why had he confided in her those simple pleasures, so quotidian and banal? Most of all, why was he so bothered by it? The heat in his cheeks flushed away with the flowing brook. Its waters seemed to have cleansed him, but of what? It was a question he could not answer. The faint glow of fireflies grew brighter against the brook's limpid surface. The air grew heavy with darkness, and shadows loomed.

"Cullen," a soft voice shot out in the dark. Cullen turned. Lúthien was there, standing behind a tree. She almost blended into the shadows with her dark hair flowing down over her shoulders.

"Have you been watching long?" he asked. She shook her head. The gleam in her eyes captured the rapid motion of her gesture. "I see..." Cullen stayed kneeling before the brook as its quiet waters rolled down the sodden Earth. The last rays of the sun sank against the darkened wall of foliage and trees over in the horizon. "I'm sorry," he said still facing away from her. "I didn't mean to worry you. Sometimes, I need a moment to be alone." The pitch blackness of the sky, dotted with stars vagrant and alone, lost in their black sea, cooled the throbbing ache in Cullen's throat. He stayed staring into the shallow waters of the brook mesmerized by the scene it reflected. A cool breeze brushed against the loose curls of his head, and somehow, breathing became easier.

She peered her head over out from the tree, deigning to get closer. "Cullen is... okay?" Her voice shook with the uncertainty of her words. But Cullen turned slightly and gave her an encouraging smile, happy that she was eager to demonstrate her adaptability with their language.

"I'm fine." Cullen frowned a little after speaking. He hadn't meant to be so short with the response. Yet it was difficult to speak. The sharp piercing sensation crystallized in his throat, accompanied by a headache nagging in the distance of his ears. The withdrawals were worsening, and he knew these symptoms were only the beginning of what was to come.

The sound of grass crunched against Lúthien's quiet steps. Her feet dragged against the soft and loose soil warning him of her approach, as he remained crouched over his reflection in the brook. A soft hand, delicate and quivering, fell on his shoulder. Cullen turned, and before him Lúthien stood aglow against the starlight. The breeze weaving through her hair played with her tousled curls. On her other hand, pressed against her palm, she held a phial that glowed bright blue and pulsed with ancient life. Seeing it hit him with a cold slap against his jaw. She held it out for him to snatch, but there was caution in her movement. Lúthien was reluctant if not distraught at the idea of giving it to him.

Before taking it, before he could reach out to her helping hand and prolong the numbing relief of his addiction, Cullen took a step back, swallowing hard, and trying his best to maintain a comfortable distance. "Who are you Lúthien? Why are you helping me?" _Me?_ Yes, why was she so attached to him? Following him and rescuing him against all odds? Dorian and Pierre were coincidences, and even then she barely made the effort to befriend them as she did with him. He could explain her attachment as some youthful fancy. He was always bombarded by women in the public eye, but deep down he could sense an ulterior motive, or perhaps in a less sinister fashion, a driving force behind her actions. Her knowledge of the forest, so guarded a secret, was guiding them back out of the Wilds. Even Pierre, the professional tracker and trapper, conceded to her authority. Cullen wondered how a creature so lost to civilization and so hidden amongst ancient ruins could be so interested in his survival.

Lúthien merely gave a placid smile to his question, understanding fully what he meant by it. It was another piece of the mysterious puzzle: how did she understand them and yet be unable to speak much of their language? But instead of tackling it with words and gesticulations, the elf took his hand into his, "I... show Cullen." She placed a warm hand against the stubble of his cheek, cupping it, and radiating with warmth. A sanguine blush swept away Cullen's tanned complexion. He was taken aback by the suddenly intimate nature of her touch, a touch he hadn't sought after in years. Feeling her hand, soft like the petals of a lotus blossom, awakened the fluttering passions from their deep sleep. Lúthien then used her other hand and used the soft padding of her fingers to press down on his eyelids, motioning for him to close his eyes. He did as her touch commanded, and when he shut his lids for the pitch black of darkness, he could hear whispers trailing in his ears and overpowering the deafening noise of his addiction symptoms.

"Lúthien what's...?"

But this time her lips only inched closer to his ear, feeling her breath brush against the side of his neck. She was muttering something, and despite the proximity of her lips to his ear, he could barely make it out.

 _Open it_.

Cullen opened his eyes, and he let out a sharp intake of breath when he realized he was no longer in the forest. From his kneeling position, he fell to his bottom on the ground and let his arms catch his fall. The sound and feel of water rippled against his skin. He was in a very shallow pool, the water reaching up to his wrists. Around him the sky swirled a bright green, and voices seemed to litter the ground around him. They were all speaking, deafening, like a cacophony of whispers that would stalk his every move. Panicked, he looked around in search for anything or any sign he was going to be okay. He hastily stood up and instinctively reached for his sword, but his hand grasped at air when it moved towards his waist. _Nothing_. Of course there was nothing. He left the sword by the camp. Around him were spirals of stone, but they weren't normal rocky formations. They were incandescent, as if fire burned within them, and a heavy mist befell their heights. Off to the distance, he could the horizon lined with the brightest light. He squinted his eyes, struggling to make out what it was. Not a sun, but...

"The Golden City," a familiar voice echoed behind him. Cullen spun around, and there before him stood Lúthien. But she wasn't... The elf was not dressed in her scanty leather armor. Her hair was not loose in the winds, gliding against the skin of her back. Her eyes were not the deep pools of melancholy they always were, giving an innocent yet doting gaze to those she meets. No, she was dressed in a robe regal in pale white silk with golden buckles clasping them along her middle. The dress fell in a train, soaked in the water. Her dark hair was fixed up in a neat bun. A circlet lined the crown of her head. It was a pale metal, just like her bow, and it sparkled against the green glow of the atmosphere.

"The Golden City?" he repeated.

Lúthien nodded her head. "At least, that's how you know it."

Questions raced in Cullen's head, yet the confusion was surprisingly unburdened by the migraines plaguing him earlier. He took a second to breathe calmly, to collect himself, and ask what was most imperative to him at the moment. "What's happening?"

She took a step closer, letting the train of her dress part little waves in the small pond within which they stood. "We are in the Fade. At least, you are dreaming in the Fade."

"Dreaming? But that's not possible..." Cullen raised a questioning eyebrow and almost jumped at her for her even more confusing answers. The inner commander in him demanded a full explanation. "Tell me everything you know."

Lúthien smiled. "That I cannot, but I will tell you what I remember." She paced around him, going towards the golden glow off to the horizon. When she ambled a few paces too far from him, Cullen followed wordlessly as he awaited an explanation. "I cast a spell so you could dream in the Fade with me for a short time." They arrived at a rocky platform, away from the pool of questionable water and continued their little walk.

"Somehow that explains why you're able to talk to me now? And why you look so different?"

Her smile went from polite and formal to a little bashful. "You see a version of me before I slept, and memories of spirits wandering the Fade give me the tongue I need to speak. That is, from before I went into Uthenera with the guidance of my elders." Cullen's expression became passive, turning to a shell. He did not understand. _Uthenera_? Questions swirled indeed, but he would rather she explained it all herself, in her words, and in her choosing. When Lúthien met only with silence, she decided to continue speaking. "I don't have much time Cullen. You are not actually sleep and dreaming. I cast a spell, but the Veil has taken away much of my power." Her eyes fell downcast on the ground beneath them. The sadness that defined the shape of her eyes and the contour of her face overwhelmed him. "I can hardly be called a mage now." She stopped walking and faced him. Her lips, reddened with rouge, curled to a fragile frown. "I was awakened... summoned by someone. I should have rotted away. My life was sacrificed so I could stop Fen'harel, but someone called to me in the Dreams, asking me to protect you."

Cullen's scar twitched at the news. Somehow, he was not surprised Solas was entangled in all of this. What's more, someone summoned this ancient... _person?_... to help him? No, _protect_ him. He thought of the possible list of people that could have done so and all the mages he knew, but somehow he figured none of them could be so capable or even know of the possibility of summoning the likes of Lúthien, whatever she was.

"When I awoke," she continued, "I lost most of my memories. I am barely a shade walking in the shadows of a past I am clinging onto. I don't even know if my words, my appearance, or the memories I currently hold are mine. I live and walk with a purpose, but it is a purpose I did not ask for." There was a glimmer in her eyes and an overbearing yearning in her voice. She sounded like a lost child wandering the Fade and hoping for salvation.

"You need help as well," Cullen disrupted. "You want to go back to your... sleep. You also want to remember who you are, or were..."

Lúthien nodded, happy to see how quickly he caught on. Yet their time was short, and there was still graver issues she must convey. "There is only one Evanuris left in the Veil who can help me return to sleep, but he is one I once called my enemy. Fen'harel, the Dread Wolf." Cullen did not take the news well. Five years before, he set out on a journey, however plagued and haunted he was by it, to destroy Solas. It was such a winding, convoluted path. It took him in different places, it marred his image to his friends, and it brought him to the nadirs of the mind. Now, in the Wilds initially searching for Andruil's Temple, somehow his fate has been finally sealed. He will meet Solas once more, but it would be in this tortured quest seeking both for his aid and destruction. "It won't be easy," she added in disrupting his train of thought. "The only way to fulfill my summoning is to aid you in _your_ quest and protect you from whatever harm befalls you. Yet what you seek is my salvation. It is a destiny we must see through to its end." She spoke with finality. It was a sovereignty he never sensed in her, as if she belonged to a more ancient and powerful world that he could never imagine.

Cullen's eyes fell to the ground in deep thought. Maker, how does he get tangled up in these situations? Born a farmer's son, trained to be a meager templar, tasked with commanding a peacekeeping force, and now what? Now he was washed up widower and savior of an ancient spirit. The fun never seemed to end!

"I will help you, Lúthien, though I'm not sure of what assistance I could be." Cullen offered his right hand as a sign of an oath – a pact that would bind them both. "You saved my life twice. The least I could give is my word."

She too clasped his hand in her gesture of acceptance. Beyond them, the Golden City flamed a brighter aura of green and gold. A movement rattled the air, and they could feel its impact. "Our dream is about to end." She squeezed his hand and held on, this time radiating more warmth to him as she hurried to speak the words that she struggled to voice. "Just know, Cullen, she loves you." Her voice, morose and shaking, lilting at its depths rattled him. "Every night and every dream, she speaks to me. She loves you, and she always will."

She? Loves? Cullen parted his lips in response as he was rapt in confusion, but before he could answer, he once more sank in a void of black, an oblivion that wiped away whatever traces there were of the part of the Fade he walked. In the pitch darkness, he realized his eyes were still shut tight, and he could feel a warm hand caressing his temple. When it let go and left a coolness in its place, a sharp pain began to nag at his throat. Warmth returned to his limbs, and suddenly he knew he was no longer dreaming.

Cullen's eyes snapped open, and before him Lúthien knelt wordlessly with an attentive gaze. His body was shaking, and his breathing was heavy. It was a strange feeling being pulled from one end of the world, in fact beyond the world, in the Fade and out again in the banal stillness of the forest with only the rippling of the brook to sing against the quiet.

A sad smile crept up on his scarred lip. Maker, what had he gotten himself into _this_ time? The news was so abrupt and so fast. To meet with Solas again? To help her before he could avenge himself? He was in so much disarray over the nonsensical revelations.

"I told myself I would find him, Lúthien. I said I would find Solas, avenge my wife, avenge my son..." With a thud, his knees fell on the grass, eyes remained fixed on the lyrium that hovered tantalizingly in the elf's hand. A quiet little sob rolled up in his throat, but he choked it back. "Maker, who was I fooling? I was trying to forget... War was all I knew, and I wanted it to stop." Cullen's head was throbbing, and somehow the glimmers of light around him – from the fireflies, the stars, the reflections on the brook – became blinding. He shut his eyes tight, and buried his head in his knees.

Lúthien smiled in her quiet and doting way upon hearing his unasked for confession. She took one of his hands and placed the cold crystal atop his callused palm. Her fingers forced his to wrap around the phial, beckoning him to hold onto it. Though she beamed at him, trying to look jovial and receptive to his outpour, her brows were furrowed, somewhat upset and somewhat frustrated. "Mala suledin nadas," she said with those pleading almond-shaped eyes.

Cullen nodded, unsure of what she meant but trying his hardest to be polite anyway. He took the phial in his hand, squeezing tight and feeling for its coolness. The soreness in his throat intensified to a piercing jab travelling down his spine. Addiction was such a poisonous thing, and he knew it above all. _Mala suledin nadas_... Yet those words meant something, didn't they? He breathed in and slowly out, trying to assuage himself of all those cries of desperation ringing in his head. A grave and somber expression fell on his face, and he said with a solemn yet resolute frown, "Not today." Lúthien looked up in surprise and with genuine concern. But Cullen only placed the phial back in her soft hands, her palm still laid out and flat on her lap. He repeated her gesture and wrapped her fingers around the cold glass. "Keep it safe, but not today," he declared.

The elf smiled warmly, as if she was emanating with pride at his decision. Who was to say? Cullen was content with his interpretation, and seeing her tuck the phial away back in her pouch, made him a little more than content. In fact, he was a little happy, happy to have an actual secret the other two could be suspicious of, and happy that, somehow, he found the strength to _try_ to remember and honor his late wife's memory. He let go of her hand, gently leaving it on her lap, before rising from the ground and taking in the evening air. The lightness in his chest made him feel young again, as if he could soar through the dark sky and brush his fingers against stardust. The pain... the thirst for lyrium was still there, but he was aglow and weightless in his new revelation. Cullen did not realize that his lips were beaming so wide, from ear to ear, until Lúthien laughed from her spot on the grass below him. She placed a hand on her lips in an attempt to stifle her laughter.

"It is actually late now," he said with a soft chuckle. "Perhaps we should go back and get some sleep," he followed his suggestion with a compulsive scratch on the back of his neck, patting himself for the abrupt bout of shyness he suffered in front of a newfound friend.

Lúthien simply nodded before quietly heading off ahead of him. But before she could disappear once more into the shadows, Cullen stopped her, "Wait!" She paused and spun to face him. "Thank you," he said without smile or gesture. His words spoke true, and that was all he needed. Her feet glided against the grass, and before long she drifted off into the void of the path before him.

* * *

"Apple," came Lúthien's soft-spoken answer.

Cullen laughed and retrieved the fruit from her. "Correct."

Her lithe fingers reached once more into the sack and procured another object. She let go of the sack, and felt its edges, its corners, turned it about to see with both pairs of eyes and hands. "Compass," she said. Her bright eyes looked up towards her new mentor, brimming with excitement at the thought she could be right. The smile was infectious, as it often put Cullen in good spirits. In their short days together, he admired her as a formidable fighter in her own right and as a compassionate friend who somehow elicited from people exactly what they tried to run away from. Those brown eyes were warm, inviting, asking one to melt with her all in an instant. He thought of those spare moments and stolen glances when, as they were all climbing down from the mountain just days before, he caught sight of the sun-kissed skin of her thigh as it grazed against the rough bark, how her torn leather trousers exposed the smooth and bronze skin of her curves...

Cullen snapped the images away from his mind the moment he felt heat rush to his cheeks. The former commander-now-tutor of the Common Tongue simply nodded in approval, remembering she was still waiting for him. He again took the compass from her and placed it on the grass beside him. It added to the pile of objects she correctly named. It was their fourth day traveling together, and they were nearly ten miles away from the nearest way station in the outskirts of the Wilds. To pass the time, each morning, just after sunrise, they would practice basic words and simple sentences. It was Cullen's idea – his idea to have them learn each other's words. There was an immediate practicality to the project that neither Dorian nor Pierre questioned, but there was also the more imperative weight of their pact. They were bound to help each other in a larger and more secretive quest. To be able to communicate was a matter of life and death now. Whatever intimacy or attraction he felt, it was only bodily lust. At his age, he was man enough to admit it; to admit when he knew a woman was attractive, but he found no use in pursuing or satisfying such base inclinations. After all, Cullen had already tasted more and better. He had been in love and still loved with all his heart. For years now, he convinced himself that no one and nothing could be better than his days with Lavellan. Anything and anyone else were mere trifles – whores and other women who made it a sport to gallivant with men like him. But as for Lúthien... How could he despoil an otherwise reassuring and amiable friendship? No, best to keep things simple.

"I think I've run out of things to test you with. Perhaps you can test me now?" He returned all the objects into the sack and shook it a little to scatter them about in the canvas bag. Sitting across from him, Lúthien giggled at how seriously he was taking the lesson. Now, as his mentor of _Elvhen_ , she could not help but feel these nursery exercises were more of a reprieve from the rigors of hiking and trekking the Arbor Wilds. It was something she always looked forward to, or that she _could_ look forward to.

Yards away, Dorian lay snoring and unflatteringly uncouth in his sleeping bag next to the fire. Adjacent to his spot, Pierre was already sitting up and watching the pair like a lurking shadow. Though a moment before his eyes were clouded with heavy sleep, he could not help but wake as if disturbed by a splash of water seeing the two together – almost giggling and somewhat flirting. In the past couple days, he would voice his suspicions of a love affair to Dorian, but the mage was somewhat indifferent. In some condescending fashion, he would brush it off as nothing more than a ridiculous dalliance. _"You can't have two attractive people and not have them go at it with each other_. _"_ So any sign of a budding romance from either two, Dorian merely brushed aside in aloofness. After all, he finally found Cullen, and therefore he was more concerned about debriefing him on political news – a feat that must come after getting out of the recesses of a harsh wilderness. For his part, Pierre could not wait to be rid of his company. His ties were merely professional, and he found that camaraderie did not help ease whatever tensions he himself felt.

What actually plagued Pierre were the escalating and macabre dreams he had been dreaming since he met Lúthien. In the dark recesses of his sleep, she would come to him at night, her dainty figure naked and inviting. In other nights, he dreamt himself a skulking wolf ready to pounce at her vulnerable and listless body (always by a tree or a forsaken grove, silent and private, where no one would hear her muffled screams), taking her by force, and hearing the howls of her cries as he would wake up beaded in sweat and with a pounding heart. The Orlesian knew what his body was telling him, but it was unnerving nonetheless. The intensity that filled him in his sleep made him realize that he never _wanted_ a woman so badly. It was not the yearning of romance or the insatiable hunger of lust. No, it was consuming desire. Burning. He always swelled in heat thinking of raping her and despoiling the otherwise pristine skin she so readily showed off with her makeshift furs and leathers. He thought of ripping those leathers to shreds, of biting down the smooth of her neck, and fisting his hands into the tangles of her hair, pulling until she cried out in pain. It was just thought of violent conquest that spurred him so. In his noble youth, the elf servants were always readily available to him – like objects to be had and thrown away. Yet this one was a little more than beyond his reach. She had a knight in shining armor – a hero he once admired as an aspiring chevalier – and he could only imagine the consequences should he cross him.

Pierre rose and walked up towards them. "Bon matin, my lady and messere." He bowed courteously, especially to Lúthien. The pair merely looked at him with some hint of suspicion and irritation. He had interrupted the giggling and the bonding, and they were somehow _very_ aware of the sort of intrusion the Orlesian committed. "I thought I might join your lesson, if that is alright."

Lúthien's head spun to Cullen, reading his face for advice on the matter. Cullen, who wanted with all his might to yell out a resounding rejection and to push anyone away from their private little practice session, swallowed hard and reasoned with himself. There was absolutely no logical or rational excuse he could give to turn Pierre away. And so he nodded again, politely adding, "Of course, Pierre." While sitting cross-legged, he nudged himself to the side, making room between him and his Elven mentor-and-or-mentee. The smile on Lúthien's previously giggling lips evaporated. She donned a deadpan mask trying to hide the discomfiture the Orlesian's presence gave her. The former commander knew of her uncanny ability to sense (sense perhaps because she could not exactly read) another's thoughts, and he wondered what swirled in the depths of the tracker's mind that disquieted her so.

Once Pierre settled himself firmly on the ground and wedged himself between the pair. He looked at the sack sitting on Lúthien's lap. "What game are we to play this morning?" he asked as his eyes somewhat lingered on the curves of her waist and the supple thighs the canvas bag failed to cover.

Lúthien could feel exactly where his eyes wandered, just as she could feel him watching her every move anytime she was alone or left to her own devices. Each morning, she prayed (to whoever still listened) that Pierre might leave their company sooner rather than later. At the moment, she kept this hope within the bounds of the way station. The thought of leaving the Wilds instilled an uncertain fear in her. Since waking, it's all she's ever known. Yet the thought of finally being rid of the Orlesian did much to assuage those fears. If Pierre was indicative of the worst shemlen could offer, then she hadn't much to fear. But if he proved a trifle compared to the evils mortals are actually very capable of, then she can rest easy and put faith into her two new most recent friends. Her upper teeth nipped at her lower lip as she politely handed the sack to Pierre. Her shoulders shook a little when, with a snap, the Orlesian shot out his hand and grasped the neck of the cloth with sudden force, stealing a touch from her silken fingers. For reasons unknown, she glanced apprehensively at Cullen, looking to see if his reaction would deal a punishing blow on her for the Orlesian's forwardness. But he only watched silently with no hint of emotion or distress.

Icicles shuddered through Lúthien's spine as an eternal second elapsed at a snail's pace. Pierre eventually let go of his iron-like grip and moved the sack to his lap. "Let me guess! I take an object from this sack and guess its name in Elven?" The smile on his lips grew more sinister, and the gilded frame of his mask, emblazoned with the talons of a Great Bear at its crown, only worsened the effect.

Pierre turned to Cullen who nodded while grunting in affirmation. "Mhm."

"How quaint!" The Orlesian laughed, but there was no mirth in it. Some sort of condescension rang in his voice, and it made them all uncomfortable. "Perhaps if I had played this game with my servants, they would never have vanished from my father's house!"

Cullen shifted once more, making it look, quite comically to Pierre, like he had an irritable itch in his lower backside. Lúthien had a more quizzical look for her reaction, wondering what he was meaning and the slipperiness of his figures of speech. "Vanished?" she repeated in astonished question.

"Ah!" Pierre almost sang out seeing that he struck a note. "Why yes! Did Messere Dorian or Messere Cullen not tell you? The elves have vanished... eh disappeared... it is how do you say, _gone_. They are not in Orlais, Ferelden, or perhaps all of Thedas! That is, until we met you." Cullen could see Pierre take pleasure in his blunt explication. Pierre looked as if he could whistle a tune, skip along the path, and be on his merry way.

A wave of concern fell upon Lúthien's once-rosy cheeks. Both men could see she was understandably confused if not a little distraught. What did he mean _gone_? She fisted both her hands into her lap as she tried to quell the rage of bewilderment crawling up and down her neck.

"I must warn you," Pierre smiled with a twinkle in his eye, "Leaving the Wilds will prove... risky. People will be frightened, or... what's a simpler word for you, scared? Right, commander? Scared!" He playfully jumped between the two, his words adding to the tension simmering in the air.

Cullen maintained his impassiveness, but the twitch in his scar betrayed the real emotions surging through him. He wasn't angry, no, but he was a little upset at whatever game the man was playing. Orlesians were always ready to connive their way and wriggle around the shadowy corners of foul play. More importantly, however, the elf in question was barely holding on to her little facade of perpetual calm. Scared? Gone? The words were like hollow shells constantly beating her in the back of the head. She knew and did not know all at once, and that was truly frightening. "Enough of that," Cullen chided in his commanding voice. "We'll deal with that problem once we get there, but as long as she stays with us, people have no reason to fear. They trust the leaders of the Inquisition still-..."

"After all these years? Maker!" and so Pierre concluded with his profanity. Cullen, whose lips were parted as if to say something, recanted whatever words built up on his tongue. There really was nothing to say to that, and he felt childish for relying so readily on his reputation as former commander.

Pierre's gloved hand reached down in the cloth and pulled out an apple – red and gleaming against the morning sun. "Ah! C'est la pomme. What is it in Elven?" Pierre almost laughed at his own question, reveling in wicked glee.

Lúthien smiled and unwrinkled the lines previously marring her face. "Uil," she said with a slight bow of her head.

"Uil?!" Pierre chimed almost exaggeratedly. "It sounds like our word for oil, l'huile!" He laughed boisterously as if the connection was clever and merited applause. "I quite fancy this game. It makes me feel like a child again, running unaware and carefree!"

Cullen himself felt a little ridiculous for letting the barking frilly _pup_ jest at their (their? Did he assume solidarity with Lúthien in this case?) expense. A hardened frown replaced the proud mask of docility he wore. "Ser Pierre," he said gruffly. His demeanor assumed the commander's stance, sitting upright and making use of his domineering height. "We should wake Dorian. It's almost mid-morning, and we have a ways to go."

"Correct," Lúthien's quiet voice interjected. With a stern fit of her brow, she shifted her weight on one knee and rose up on her feet. Both shemlen were startled by her sudden briskness. Without further word, the elf walked away with an angry strut. The beautiful morning with her friend, consisting of nothing but playful games in which they said nothing and everything, was spoiled. She didn't know where it was she walked to, but a molten pot presented itself by the fire, and she instinctively grabbed it. "Water, for wash," she announced in her muted yet firm tone. Cullen shrugged, and Pierre wolfishly grinned watching and relishing the awkwardness of it all. That Dorian, who was still dead to the world in his cot just a few feet from Lúthien, continued to drown out the heavy silences with his animated snoring did not help lighten the mood. With a huff, Lúthien spun around in search of the path that led to the small river they passed in the previous night.

Unsuccessfully acting like nothing was happening or had happened, Cullen brusquely woke Dorian with a shove on the shoulder. The warrior shook his old friend several times before the mage choked on his own mid-snore inhale and coughed himself awake. "Wha-..." Dorian's sleepy eyes pried themselves open, and his hand instinctively wiped away the drying spittle dripping from his mouth. "Is it... " mid-yawn he wakes up to the sight of a stern Cullen and sheepishly asks, "morning already?" Cullen did not answer and just proceeded to his own unmade cod. Dorian could tell some kind of broom was stuck up his former commander's arse, most probably in a figurative way, which would explain why Cullen so readily abused his cot by kneading it to the ground as he forcefully rolled it. "Good morning it is," chipped Dorian, quite aware of how ironic and witty he was being.

The mage stretched with arms upraised. His back arched like that of a cat as he roared out a mighty yawn and shook the sleep out of his head. "You let me sleep too long," he said chidingly and somewhat dramatically to the still-upset Cullen.

"I'll make a note of it to your servants," the warrior replied as he began to work on his canvas bag and arranged his things.

"Ugh the sass!" Dorian rolled his eyes and waved his arm as if to weep. "I do miss when our commander was a little more serious and a little less snarky!" Cullen did not respond as he was unwilling to prolong the useless banter. _Shame_ , thought Dorian. He missed that about the Inquisitor, Bull, Sera, Varric... all of them really. They were never afraid to make fun out of an otherwise shit situation.

After completing his stretches and rubbing sleep out of his eyes one last time, Dorian peered around, tracing the position of the sun for time. "Well, we could get there by early evening, if we don't mind traveling a bit after sundown." He knelt and prepared to roll up his cot for his pack. Glancing around once more and taking in the breath of early daytime, he noticed an odd quirk. "Where's Lúthien?"

"Fetching water." Cullen's response was terse and somewhat irritated.

A fight perhaps? Dorian's eyes were ready to do another eye roll (he had been doing those a lot lately). If people were going to be ridiculously romantic, he wished they would leave the drama out for once. Really, were they not too old for that drivel? He sighed, somewhat exasperated with an otherwise beautiful morning spent with unpleasant company. "I see," he said. But there was another quirk bothering him... "Where's Pierre?"

Silence from Cullen. Dorian glanced over his shoulder to make sure his former commander was not ignoring him. He could see that Cullen froze, no longer packing or fussing about with his things. The ambient chirping of birds and a wayward breeze marked the passage of time as they still held on to that uncomfortable silence. "I don't know," Cullen finally answered.

Instantly and synchronously they realized together how problematic that could be. Both men scanned around the camp while they tried to casually appear as if they were still packing. One did not want to alert the other to his suspicions. After all, Pierre had not given them any reason to panic. Sure, he acted strangely around the elf, if not at all rancorous and somewhat creepy. But what if...

Dorian looked up from his pack, stood, and stammered out, "Cullen, I-..."

"We should check on him." The declaration from Cullen was a little more candid and resolved.

Dorian gave a sigh of relief when he realized he was not alone with his qualms and reservations about Pierre. "Yes, we should."

* * *

Author's apology: If you reached this point, this means you trudged through my verbiage and somewhat dense writing. Thank you. I wanted to write this, because I was so dissatisfied with the otherwise beautiful ending with Trespasser. This is my chance to write a different ending - a definitive one, and perhaps to revisit the tragedy that is lurking in the Dragon Age series. Thank you, kind reader, for giving me the time of day. I promise the excitement is finally about to come as all the exposition is mostly done.


	6. Chapter 6

Note on the Elven: I used a translator from lingojam/ElvenDAI to write the Elven in this story. Lúthien's name is from a different universe, that of J.R.R. Tolkien's _The Silmarillion_. I do not own any of these aforementioned intellectual properties.

* * *

Lúthien had long ago filled the pot with water, but she delayed and let the metal clank against the rocks anyway. The water flowed in and dangled from the handle she so nonchalantly held on to. Looking over her shoulder, she could not see him, but she could feel him there – watching, waiting. She felt like a fawn taking an innocent drink, feigning obliviousness to the dangers lurking around her, but really she was a little wiser. The grove behind her was a little too quiet. What could explain the unnatural stillness in the forest? None other than a wolf prowling in the shadows, ready to pounce in lethal surprise. Finally, she lost out in patience and lifted the bucket from the river. The pot sat heavy between her arms. Its sheer weight prompted her to lean back a little to achieve some sort of awkward balance. But before heading back on the path, she stayed a while by the river and refused to come into the heavy foliage.

"Cullen?" she called out despite the fact that it was very obviously not Cullen. No answer. "Hello?" Her voice echoed far into the arborous terrain. Again, no answer. Lúthien sighed and resigned herself to playing the little game if need be. She squared her shoulders and hugged the water pot tightly above her belly before briskly proceeding with a march's pace. She stepped under two oak trees with branches almost intertwined to form an arboreal gate to the path. Every blade of grass wrapped around her toes before creaking under its weight. Around her birds were singing, crickets cajoling, and the trees seemed to sway and dance with the wind. The seeming peacefulness of it unnerved her, making her quicken her pace to a light jog.

"That looks heavy."

The startled Lúthien jumped and felt her hands flail away from the heavy cauldron. But in front of her, stood the masked Pierre, having glided from the shadows behind a tree. His hands caught the metal basin so easily and so swiftly. His lips curved to a cunning grin, as he inched closer and pushed the pot against her belly.

"Let a strong man carry it for you," he said almost to a hushed whisper. He stood so close to her that his hot breath fell down on her nose. Lúthien averted his gaze and focused on the ground beneath their feet. Her heart was pounding, wondering what she should do. She knew the Orlesian had to go back with them no matter what. Humble hunter he may be, but it is clear, from the brazenness of his manner and sense of superiority, that he may have powerful people behind him. A simple knife in the back or a silent strangulation in self-defense would not help her, would not convince anyone of her innocence.

"No." Her refusal was blunt. "I am strong." She pulled the pot away from his grasp, but the sheer force of his resistance made the metal recoil against her abdomen, letting the water splash violently against the rims. But before the elf could walk around him and be about her business, Pierre made a move to grab her waist. His hands were smooth, sly, and almost imperceptible. Yet the elf would hold the upper hand in this game of shadow. She let go of the water pot, letting the metal clank against the hold rocks in front of her as she instantly spun around and grabbed hold of his wrists, holding them in the air and barring their attempted violation.

Lúthien _was_ strong, surprisingly strong. She held his arms up for longer than Pierre imagined she could in spite of the strength he was trying so hard to exert on her. The water from the pot began to seep into the grass, and it touched Lúthien's naked toes. The smaller woman struggled in this arm wrestle, with Pierre pushing her back as her feet brushed against the tide of the puddle. Both their jaws were clenched.

"Silly rabbit," he growled harshly under his breath. Pierre, being a proficient wrestler in Orlesian circles, twisted her right arm and whirled it behind her back, turning her around so he could press against her back. When she reached out with her left, he snatched it and twisted it behind her. Lúthien howled out in pain, wincing as she could feel her bones wrenched and restrained by Pierre's gloved hand. "I know you're nothing but a silly little heathen." He whispered so close to her ear, his exposed cheek brushed against her hair as he pressed her body closer to his. "You haven't been around civilized people. That's alright, I'll teach you how to behave..." Pierre felt her body seize up, tensing, and trying to wriggle free from his grasp. He felt her shift her weight on her right leg, readying some momentum for a kick. But before she could execute the move, Pierre preemptively put all his weight on her back, making her bend down and fall on her knees to the ground. Pierre supported both their weights by planting his other hand firmly on the soil, and the other hand was busy restraining the elf. She squirmed underneath him, disgusted, reviled... He wished he could look at her, face her, and see how frightened those sad eyes were.

"Pierre no!" she commanded with teeth grinding in rage. The Orlesian could only chuckle at her rebelliousness. No other woman would have fought so hard, would have been so disgusted. Most were already defeated, consigned to the fate the Maker bestowed upon them as lesser creatures writhing beneath his lecherous body. Lúthien tried to rock her hips away from him, but he kept pressing down on her body until she almost fell flat on the ground. She tried hard to remain kneeling, to never fall completely, else he would have his way. But even then he used her resistance to his advantage, wedging his legs underneath her thighs. It was as if he was forcing her to sit on his lap. The elf wanted to scream, cry...

"Stop Pierre!" There was a little more desperation in her voice when she felt his erection rub against her thighs. To add insult to injury, he lifted his other hand, and Lúthien could feel his fingers slithering up from her waist. He fondled and caressed, moving his way up to her bosom.

"No!" she yelled out one last time. Lúthien had never known the lust of a man. The world she knew sheltered her from it, prevented her from ever suffering from it. Now, under the weight of this mortal, she would lose it all?

No.

Lúthien leaned her head forward. Her forehead almost touched the ground and buckled beneath Pierre's weight. He remained hovering mid-air, wondering what she was doing, but before long, her back snapped upward. Like a catapult, her head reeled backwards and smashed into his mask. Pierre recoiled from the force of impact, and his hands flailed to his face as the mask cracked against his skin.

"Bitch!" he screamed out as Lúthien wriggled free and untwisted her limbs.

She scurried on the soil away from him before getting up on her knees and, without a thought or word, sprinted. Running, her feet carried her like the wind. Images blurred in front of her. Her eyes were dry. No tears? It didn't matter. One only had to run and keep running. Sometimes, survival is knowing when to never stop running.

Seconds passed, moments. She felt like a bird taking flight as the trees blurred together into one moving object, one dark blur in the corner of her eye. Then, a loud thud rang in her ears, and she felt the air knocked out of her chest. Without even knowing it, her body clashed against another, more rooted one in front of her. She fell against the force of the collision back down onto the grass.

"Lúthien?" Softly spoken. It was him!

The elf quivered on the ground, barely able to comprehend what in the world just happened. She felt light-headed, and the bright morning light circling the trees above them seemed to worsen her already blurred vision. Cullen's shadowy figure leaned forward, thereby blocking out the blinding aura around her. A gloved hand reached out. It was not like Pierre's. His was slow in its movements and was a little worried with how it shook. Lúthien took it, and she felt her body levitated from her soft bed of grass. Her eyes darted around, trying to see for his face, to turn her neck and look behind her... But somehow, she could only notice that her legs wobbled, and she still felt like she was floating.

"You're hurt!"

"What's going on?!"

Two voices hovered in the air, but she could not put their faces together. They were separate, disembodied, and somehow flitting amidst the light around her. Her arms held out looking for the people she believed near her. Cullen... Dorian? If only there was a way to see and tell.

Something warm streamed down the back of her head and soaked into her hair. Her hand reached around, patting the matted black hair on the bottom of her skull. It was warm and felt soft, softer than water. Her hand shone like garnet against the glow of the morning sun.

"Maker! she's bleeding..."

Ruby droplets fell like dewy rain on a blade of grass. It fell from the heights of her neck and down from the curve of her back. The gloved hands, previously warm and inviting, grabbed hold of her shoulders. Wrapped around the knob of her bones, thumbs clasping against her protruding collar bone. "Lúthien what happened? Where's Pierre?!"

Her eyes rolled up to look at him, to stare at him back, to reach the height his head reached, but again nothing but blinding light. Light, it all felt so airy.

"Lúthien!"

* * *

Cullen slapped her cold cheeks gently as if to softly nudge her away from the world of dreams. Lúthien lay there with eyes closed. Cold sweat poured from the crown of her head down to her temples. Her body lay limp as Cullen supported the back of her head with his gloved hand. Even from underneath the leather, the warmth of her blood seeping into the fabric unnerved him. He looked over his shoulder to the mage behind him, "Well... help!"

Dorian rushed to her other side and craned her neck with his arms, pulling the unconscious elf onto his lap so he can examine the wound a little closer. Carefully, he titled her chin lower and off to the side so as to expose the injury. Beside him, Cullen knelt in silent trepidation. "Don't worry," Dorian said, trying to prevent his friend from wallowing in some self-imposed guilt trip. "It's just a blunt head injury." The mage did his best to downplay everything, to calm the nerves, and to cool whatever tempers were rising. Seeing blood always had that effect, especially on good soldiers. It spurred Cullen into springing to action without any thought or premise for the violence. Yet Cullen wondered how his friendcould be so calm. This was, after all, the second time he was stuck with the elf unconscious and beside herself.

"Cloth!" Dorian demanded with heightened urgency.

Cullen looked around frantically. No cloth. No bandages. Of course not! They came unprepared with most of their things stowed away at the camp. Cullen bit his lower lip as he thought of the bandages and poultices they used on _him_ and his blasted shoulder. The former commander knew he had to improvise. Without a word, Cullen tugged at the end of his cotton tunic. He stretched out the hem with both hands before pulling with all his might. The tearing sound of cloth rang through the air as he ripped a good length off his tunic. Close to his waistline, Cullen was slightly exposed. The hard lines of his abdomen jutted out from underneath the remaining fabric. He then hurriedly handed the improvised bandage to Dorian, who took it quite gratefully though with a bit of a surprise. The mage then pressed the cloth against her head, unfolding its edges, and wrapping it around the circumference of Lúthien's skull like some unfashionable bandana.

"It's not a bad cut," he said, again to soothe Cullen's fears. "I may need to stitch it, but we'd have to get back to camp first. Stitches would mean shaving a bit of her head, and laying her flat on her stomach." The warrior nodded knowing full well that what had to be done needed to be done. Pierre would have to wait. Explanations about why chopping off a good length of her thick and dark locks – if it had to come to that – would have to wait. "At least she didn't fracture a skull!" Dorian hastily added in reading Cullen's fretful expressions. "She will recover, and you can apologize all you want then." The Tevinter mage bound the makeshift rag tightly, knotting it close to her right temple.

Dorian moved his hand down to her back in attempt to sit her up. "You know what you can do for penance, chantry boy? Carry her back to camp!" The mage snickered at his joke, but the older and slightly more jaded Cullen took the mockery with an indiscernible aloofness. As if there was no joke to begin with, the older man obeyed and wrapped Lúthien's back and calves with his arms underneath. He took the lifeless elf into his arms and set straight away for camp, as if Dorian's teasing had been actual commands barked at a foot soldier.

The mage looked up in surprise from where he was kneeling. Though Cullen tried hard to _look_ impassive and focused on the task at hand, he was still acutely aware of how the mage was judging his behavior. Through the corner of his eye, he saw Dorian's parted lips, the look of surprise... He must appear a stranger now. Up until four days ago Cullen considered himself a lost and drunken cause. Yet there he was flexing his muscles like a young knight-captain ready to save an Elven damsel in distress, basking in his hidden reserves of strength and determination.

In their merry and apocalypse-ready youth, Cullen was not unaware that Dorian always saw something regal and alluring in the blond chantry-poster-child of the Inquisition, but like all gawkers and would-be admirers, Cullen knew they only saw him the same way an art enthusiast noticed a fine sculpture – only to a degree of appreciation! Besides, the former commander's marriage to Dorian's dearest and only friend sealed their fates as brothers, who presence often needed to be tolerated and at times annoyed with. Yet here they were again, Cullen making use of his chiseled and muscular power with only the dusting of silver lining his cheeks all the way down to his neck to show for the years that swiftly passed them by.

"What are you waiting for?" Cullen asked in interrupting Dorian's little shock. The mage hadn't realize his mouth was slightly ajar and his eyes somewhat agape.

"I-..." Dorian stammered. But there was no time for words. He then collected himself, brushed dirt off his robes, and followed Cullen without question.

As their feet rustled against brittle dry leaves and crisp grass, both their minds wandered to heavier and serious things. Cullen thought about the other night when he ... magically dreamt with Lúthien. His thoughts swirled on the semi-revelations, obscure and still as confusing as ever. He wished she could convey those things once more, to perhaps utter them again in order for him to grasp at the truths buried in their weight. Yet, something was not right. The woman he saw in the Fade was altogether different than the Lúthien he carried in his arms. Muted, slightly amnesiac Lúthien had a bubbly and childish air about her. True, she emanated some sort of sadness not unlike the somber wisdom of the figure he encountered. She evoked that feeling of something constantly passing her by and stayed beyond her reach. What could it all mean? Most confusing or perhaps most damning of all – she mentioned having met Lavellan. No, she _spoke_ with Lavellan. She met his wife in the world of dreams, knew of him, and knew of their secrets. If a spirit or some unknown entity from the Beyond called out to the elf and summoned her from "Uthenera" (a concept he had trouble comprehending as well), would it not make sense if that spirit was indeed Lavellan? After all, they bore uncanny similarities – the archery, the love for hunt, their relationship with this goddess Andruil, the eerily similar shape of her eyes, _him_...

"There's something I need to tell you, Cullen." Dorian's voice echoed from behind him and cut through the warrior's thoughts. Perhaps with Lúthien "out" like a candle and Pierre gone from the picture, Dorian felt it was the right time to divulge his own mission. Cullen did not turn or pause to listen. He merely grunted to gesture for the mage to continue. "While you were gone, Solas attacked Halamshiral."

The words were dead weight as they fell soundlessly on Cullen's weary shoulders. His feet stopped, frozen. Dorian saw his alarm and proceeded to walk around him, facing his listener. Those amber eyes were steely and harsh, and his jaws clenched like the snarling of an angered lion.

"Solas himself wasn't there..."

"Then how can you be so sure?" Cullen asked a little too curtly.

The Tevinter diplomat wrinkled the bridge of his nose at his friend's impatience. "His agents left a mark – a statuette, actually, on the body of the empress. Their souvenir the likeness of the Dread Wolf."

Cullen's eyes widened, "The empress is dead?!"

"Yes."

Cullen could be distraught, he _could_ be enraged. Instead, he assumed a cold and calculating demeanor. He was used to this kind of thinking. It suited him well in times of war – a heart un-seized by terror. "How about Ferelden?"

"Thankfully, Queen Anora has taken refuge. Someone must have had an 'in' and revealed the plot to her. No one knows where she is." Dorian recited the words, finally performing what he had practiced in his head for days now. He wanted to be blunt and concise without letting Cullen lose any notion of just how desperate and grave their situation was.

Indeed, his words did not fall on deaf ears. Cullen was shocked and almost too silent. His parted lips twitched for the lack of words to say. Looking down on the body he carried, he wondered how fortuitous or, perhaps unfortunate, it was for him to meet Lúthien in the days when political upheaval and the world's end loomed in the fore. "Let's hurry," he muttered under his breath.

"Wait Cullen..." but Dorian's voice trailed off as the warrior marched his way up the path. His friend followed behind. "Wait!"

"You can walk and talk, yes?" The question was a little too snarky, a little too impatient.

"Fine," Dorian rolled his eyes as he struggled to keep up. Cullen was almost running! Picking up his pace, he wondered how his former commander could somewhat run and haul a lifeless body all at once on a mountain trail. The possibility was beyond him. Still he had news and the need to blurt it out. "Most of Orlais and Ferelden blame the Inquisition."

Another dramatic pause wrapped around them.

"Most?"

"Most – the royal family has not spoken. The chantry has not spoken, but the teyrns, arls, marquis, dukes... Royalty from both sides will be meeting _without_ Divine Victoria or Lord Seeker Cassandra." Dorian's explanations stammered out from his husky breath. They were trailing through the winding path. In the middle of his panting, he hadn't realized how far away Lúthien wandered just to fetch water.

"That means nothing," Cullen hissed as if stubbornly denying the truth of his friend's news, but Dorian was already prepared for that answer.

"It means nothing because you haven't heard the rumors or seen the press. Duke Cyril de Montfort openly questioned the Divine about our involvement with Solas during the Breach. He believes we were accessories – whether intentional or unintentional – and that judgment must pass."

Cullen could not believe his luck. He thought of all those long arduous nights when he had to watch the Inquisitor ride off to the distance. She would work tirelessly and shed her blood to guarantee peace for these people, and now, as if spitting on her grave, they dare denounce her work? Maker's breath... perhaps it was better that she was dead. At least she would not have to hear them besmirch her name.

Dorian inhaled another deep breath, indicating to his hasty friend that the bad news was not even close to finish. "The Duke also finds it convenient that..." Cullen's temples throbbed as he waited for the big reveal. He swallowed hard and concentrated on easing the tension on his arms as Lúthien's weight started to push down on him. "...that you were gone during all of this."

"Maker!" The profanity hissed through his lips and clenched teeth. The warrior glanced over his shoulder with a menacing glare. "What does me being gone have to do with _anything_?"

Dorian sighed. "It's what I said and protested, but the Duke knows you went off to the Wilds in search of Elven ruins. That, coupled with the fact that the Inquisitor was Dalish and once a good friend of Solas..."

Cullen violently snarled, scratching the back of his throat. In an act so outlandish and unlike the otherwise composed and controlled commander, he spat on the ground, shooting his spittle down on the hardened soil with livid disgust. "What do _they_ know of her? And the friends she kept?" His jaws tightened, sucking in the gaunt flesh of his cheeks. "They know _nothing_." The nagging headache that plagued him days earlier returned. Just the thought of the gossip... the rumors that dragged Lavellan's name down along with Solas... It was like nails scratching mercilessly against chalkboard. He could not, even for a second, entertain the idea.

"Calm down," chided Dorian. He was still aghast by the unseemly and temperamental behavior. Thinking back on those long years during his absence, he wondered what Cullen had gone through or had done in the name of finding Solas. He wondered what kind of guilt he racked himself with for having even sought the apostate elf's help. Most of all, he wondered at the quiet storm raging inside, simmering until it imploded in him. Cullen was not just at a loss or distraught over the death of his wife. He was angry. He felt cheated... _betrayed_ , whereas everyone else – everyone who was not invited to that fated night in the tower – saw her death as a natural albeit tragic loss. And although his friend had been widower for longer than he had been husband, each passing day without her must have marked a stolen day, or a day that could have been. Dorian felt his lips sink to a frown, and suddenly his whole body felt heavy with morose regret. Perhaps it was not the best idea to have left Cullen alone for all those years.

At last, they reached a more open clearing shaded by sparse but large trees. The doused fire still blew a gentle smoke, and their canvas bags remained untouched and neatly piled beside it. Immediately, Dorian took out a rolled sleeping cot from one of the bags and laid it out flat on the grass. "Hurry, lay her to her side."

Cullen obeyed meticulously. He knelt before the sleeping cot as he gently turned her on her side, careful to support her neck during the maneuver. The mage removed both his gloves and rolled up his sleeves. "Cullen, I need you to grind some Elfroot and Vandal Aria. You can find samples in my bag." Once Dorian held a steady hand on Lúthien's shoulder, Cullen immediately rushed to the canvas sack and rummaged through for what he was looking for. As he searched with somewhat restrained frenzy, Dorian carefully untied the knot wrapped around the elf's head. His fingers tried to delicately separate the strands of her thick and lush hair. The mage's brow furrowed a little in frustration. _Blasted hair_. Parting it to expose her scalp, Dorian could see she was still bleeding, but it slowed. He parted the hair even more, revealing a deep reed and almost black gash lining the base of her skin.

"Good." Dorian gently laid her head down and exhaled with sweet relief.

"Good what?" Cullen looked up from his task with ears pert for more commands.

"We don't need stitches, but we need to help her blood clot to stop the bleeding. Hurry with the herbs... Find some bandages too while you're at it."

Cullen rushed to his side with the necessary materials. On one hand he held a mortar pestle with the ground ingredients. On the other, he carried a roll of fresh bandages. Despite the news, Cullen felt grateful for Dorian's ever-preparedness. He knew the mage did not pride himself as an adept healer. He was quicker to show off his flair with fireballs and ice storms, but Cullen knew the true and concealed compassionate bone in the Tevinter mage. Lúthien was in very good hands.

Dorian dipped his finger into the ground paste Cullen just made. With his other hand, he kept Lúthien's unruly hair folded back, trying to keep it away from the drying and crusted blood. "Vishante Kaffas! Perhaps I do have to shave her head!" A worried glance shot over from Cullen, making Dorian smile a little. "Don't worry. I will try to avoid marring the princess's good looks." The more taciturn warrior grumbled, but said no more. Once an adequate amount of the paste was rubbed on his index finger, Dorian carefully and with surgical precision dabbed a bit on the gaping wound. Once the solution touched her tender flesh, Lúthien's arm twitched and lines wrinkled her forehead.

Dorian withdrew his hand upon noticing her functioning reflexes. "She's not as bad as I thought... Quick, Cullen!" Cullen looked up at him from where he was kneeling and awaited further instruction. "Take another piece of cloth and gag her mouth with it." He raised an eyebrow at the mage's instructions, uncomfortable with the idea.

"Just do it!" Dorian barked.

Jolted by his urgency, Cullen immediately grabbed an extra rag from the canvas bag before returning to perform the task. He knelt where Lúthien was facing. With a little trepidation, Cullen placed a nervous hand on her chin. His thumb brushed against her already-parted lips, before pushing her jaw down and setting her mouth ajar. Suddenly, he felt so self-conscious; more so than he had in years despite having overcome the awkwardness of touching other women. Heat rose to his cheeks, and he prayed to the Maker Dorian could not see the boyish blush staining his face. Gently, he placed the rolled cotton into her mouth, trying to place it as close as he could to the back of her throat. It felt so wrong, whatever he was doing, but a hidden thrill flushed through him in feeling the wetness of her tongue and the plumpness of her lips.

"Finished?" Dorian asked, still in his jocular tone. The gentle nervousness Cullen was feeling dissipated and instead resumed its ghoulish glare. He hated being teased, especially when he was already so nervous about it. When the mage judged the cloth was well placed, he dabbed two of his fingers into the medicinal paste and quickly pressed the mixture against the wound.

The hissing pain jolted Lúthien's body. Her eyes snapped open, and they could see her teeth grind and crash down on each other from the bracing pain. Both men seized her hands and pinned her limbs to the ground so she would not startle herself by sitting right back up. Alas, Cullen understood...

"The medicine is supposed to help the blood clot, but it also cleans the wound. Of course, a gash like this would hurt that bad. I figured it would wake her up..." Dorian looked so apologetic. He finished lining her injury full of the paste, until the blood and her hair were caked with the greenish mixture. Cullen watched as her face winced, wrinkling the beautiful skin with lines of agony and furrowed brows. "It's alright, my dear," Dorian cooed. "Just a little more..." A single tear welled at the corner of her eye. It bubbled and burst forth, streaming down the side of her cheek. Once the mage finished his ministration, he pointed and nudged at the remaining bandage atop Cullen's lap. Reading the gesture, his assistant dutifully passed it over. To add his finishing touch, Dorian meticulously wrapped another and cleaner bandage around her skull, starting with the base over the wound and around above her ears. It again looked like another unfashionable bandana, but at least it was fastened firmly and securely.

Lúthien opened her small eyes and slowly placed a hand against the brightness of the sun. Cullen saw that she was coming back to her consciousness, and so lifted her chin once more to remove the gag. "I'm sorry Lúthien. We wanted to make sure you wouldn't hurt yourself," he said – though he wondered how much of that she understood. With his other hand, he reached for the cloth grinding beneath her teeth and pulled on it slowly so as not to surprise her. Her eyes were a little languid and her body still not as responsive. No doubt her focus was robbed by the pain throbbing and swelling on the back of her head.

"Good?" Cullen asked with a coy smile as he removed the last of the cloth.

The elf let out a little cough once her throat was relieved. "Good," she coughed out.

Her hand reached around to the back of her head, feeling for the bandage pressed against the warmth of her wound. She winced again once she felt the burning sensation of putting pressure on it.

Dorian let out a final breath of relief. What a busy morning! But he was not one to relish in small and fleeting victory. He nudged again away from the camp, signaling his need to discuss something privately with the former commander.

Cullen saw it without responding. He then lowered himself and faced Lúthien, speaking in a calming and gentle tone. "Lúthien, I will just fetch something for you to eat. I will be right behind you with Dorian. Good?" She nodded timidly, her eyes staring that thousand-yard stare. Perhaps she was still weak and reeling from the dizzying state her wound left her in. They both walked over several feet, far enough to be inaudible to her, but close enough that she could sense their hushed voices.

"Pierre hasn't shown himself," Dorian state matter-of-factly. "You'd think by now he'd fess up or perhaps make up a lie so he could regroup."

Cullen grimaced. He swallowed hard, rolling his tongue behind his cheek as he mulled over possibilities. "Do you think he..."

"What do you mean _do I think_?" The mage was incredulous at the question. "Of course he did _something_ or he tried, anyway. The fool should've known better than to attack the one woman more capable than anyone to fend him off!" Dorian ended his tirade with a scoff, disbelieving that the Orlesian would actually try something so close to camp. He noticed in the past few days how closely Pierre watched the two, how he always snarled in envy when Lúthien deliberately avoided him for the other man's company. But he never thought he would stoop so low.

"We should leave without him," Cullen concluded. "Lúthien knows the way back, and ..."

"Are you dense?!" Dorian cut through the other man's hastily hatched plan, jeering through his teeth. "What would they think if I came back with you and an elf, but _without_ an Orlesian minor noble's son? Yes he's a seedy tracker and hunter, but he came from _some_ family! You know how high tensions are these days?!" He was beside himself in the speculations and explanations. Whatever Pierre tried to do that day, it was not worth whatever trouble he had gotten all of them in (yet Dorian knew attempting rape was something never worth it). Even if Pierre tried to fess up or commit to a lie in returning to them, Dorian knew deep down that Cullen would not have even allowed anything short of a surrender of his life. He knew the widower and now besotted fool (fool for not realizing it himself) would have done something melodramatic. Defending her honor – or whatever they liked to call it. The mage pinched the bridge of his nose in frustration.

Once Dorian was finished huffing and puffing, Cullen let out an exasperated sigh before squaring his stance and assuming a firmer tone. "What then? Should we wait here as our supplies dwindle? Should we wait for another one of _those things_ come out of the shadows? We've been lucky so far, Dorian." The last sentence sounded to the mage like an ominous threat though Cullen meant nothing more than a warning by it. He stood firm with his position, and Dorian knew there was no arguing now. Cullen turned around and glanced over the recovering elf, who, to their surprise, was already sitting up with a hand still placed on the wound – as if she could not believe she suffered a blow. He watched her with some slight tinge of regret, but he didn't know why. When it came to his new friend, everything was all at once confusing and resolute. He promised he would help her, but help her in what? In fulfilling her own ambiguous promise to an ambiguous entity to help him? It was a maddening circle, and he wondered how they could ever come away from it.

"What _is_ she, Cullen?" Dorian's question showed he was quite aware, if not more so than Cullen, just how much of an effect she is having on him – perhaps on all of them, as the previous night suggested. "I suspect you know. You're a little more trusting of her than we are." The mage was no sleuth, but it was hardly a skill to poke around the hidden thoughts of a man who displayed them so blatantly on his face.

Cullen furrowed his brows, squinting against the sunlight as he continued watching her silhouette. "I... I really don't know." Dorian scoffed in disbelief. "Even if I told you the little I know," Cullen rebutted in sensing his friend's annoyance, "it would only confuse you more. Better we get answers from someone who has at least an idea."

"But you _must_ know why she's helping us, why she's still following us. If she's really from the Wilds and not some run-of-the-mill Dalish or city elf, you'd have to do better than pleading ignorance!" He almost growled out his whispers. Dorian was utterly dissatisfied with Cullen's reticence, especially when he took a huge risk coming to get him in the forsaken Wilds with its somber greenery, ravenous monsters, and abysmal lack of civilization.

Dorian's persistence started to annoy Cullen. What else could he say in answer? Nothing would suffice for the inquisitive mage, whose own bookish curiosity had no rival. "All I know for sure is that she woke from... _Uthenera_." He frowned as the elven word rolled out his tongue. "I don't quite know or remember what that is." His fingers traced the vein pulsing down his neck, looking away from the mage as if his ignorance was a point of shame.

"Uthenera?" Dorian remembered hearing those words. In fact, he remembered hearing them in the same place, there in the Wilds. He mulled it over, thinking of their siege of the Temple, their encounter with the ancient Elven guardians, and the Inquisitor's discussion with their leader – Abelas, was his name. "I think I have an idea what it is. The elves from the Temple of Mythal spoke of it." He poked into the recesses of his mind, trying so hard to remember his final words once he relinquished the well to the Inquisition. Dorian paused, wanting to cease digging for a memory he had already lost. "And she spoke of this to you?"

Cullen's head bobbed in confirmation.

"So she can speak our language?"

The other man's eyes looked down on the ground. "Not exactly..." he trailed off his words as if he was uncertain of them. "Well, no."

The two were somewhat at a loss from their maze-like conversation. If Cullen had any lead, it would still somehow end, quite abruptly, in a cul-de-sac. That Dorian did not follow up with another question prompted Cullen to revel in the silence. They both stood wordlessly, watching the stillness of the sun and contemplating on their own. A few yards away, Cullen saw Lúthien turned her neck to peer over at the two gentlemen, whose sounds suddenly went from roaring whispers to utter stillness. Both her hands were now planted firmly on the ground, letting the rest of her loose locks sway in the wind. He could see the rag, somewhat bloodied from the back, wrapped around her head like a worn out bow and looked horrendously out of place on her otherwise feminine and lithe figure. His lips cracked a smile, rising from the tip of his scar. The image seemed so delectably funny to him.

"You know, she's probably half your age."

Cullen jerked back at Dorian's sudden – and rather uncalled for – insinuation. He did not dare face the mage and instead kept looking out in the horizon. It would only validate rather than refute whatever he was implying had he shown just how bright red his otherwise pale, silver-dusted cheeks had become. "I don't know what you're talking about," he grumbled inaudibly, but audible enough for Dorian to raise a questioning eyebrow and smirk in satisfying mockery.

"Oh?" the mage teased. "I mean... I _guess_ we don't know her age, but you know what they say! Better safe than sorry! Wouldn't want to have you accused of being lech in case she _is_ half your age!" Dorian giggled at his own banter knowing full well how Cullen steamed in quiet rage and embarrassment, but he also knew his former commander was too proud and too... dignified... to even humor the reality of their interactions and feelings. For Dorian, it was plain and simple – an act he'd seen before.

"Whatever nonsense you're getting at," Cullen puffed as he crossed his arms over his chest, "there's nothing going on. She is a friend who asked for my help. That is all." Without waiting to hear more from the mage, Cullen marched off back to camp. He would rather not even entertain the mockery or betray whatever feelings he clearly did not have. Yes, she was a beautiful woman. Yes, she was kind and had a peculiar propensity for saving his arse, but what of it? Dorian had the right of it when he mentioned her youth. As Cullen ambled along the grass and smiled an awkwardly formal and timid smile at the elf, he couldn't help but notice the absence of any lines or blemish on her face. Even her sun-kissed skin lacked freckles of any sort. No dark circles weighed down her eyes. Though she was slightly toned, for an elf she had a surprisingly curvy figure, shaped like an hourglass. If she ever appeared slender, it must have been from the length of her legs and her overall towering stature. Yes, indeed, she was attractive, but she was all too supple and all too... well, cute. Certainly at her age, whatever that may be, she preferred the vigor and passion of younger men. It was not just their physicality and finesse but their untapped capacity for romance that made youth more favorable than Cullen's more jaded and tired out ... constitution. Besides, that was only if _she_ wanted him. What did Cullen want? Certainly not a child. Whatever urges plagued him – however subconscious they are – were the result of deprivation.

"Oh sure..." Cullen could hear Dorian's mockery trail off in the distance. It was almost as if the mage could hear his internal deliberations. "Carry her with your big strong arms! What a _friendship_!" When he finally bridged the distance and reached Lúthien's side, she looked up at him in acknowledgement but did not gift him with a smile.

"Pierre?" she asked soft-spoken, like a leaf quivering against the wind.

Cullen's face scrunched to form something like a pout. That she asked about the Orlesian confirmed his and Dorian's speculation. He _tried_ something on her. It was not just a skirmish. She didn't just hit her head. He tried something, and, as expected from a woman who single handedly defeated two demons in the span of three days, fought him off. But of course, she did not escape unscathed. He brushed his hand again behind his neck. "No sign of him." Her eyes widened quizzically, and for a moment Cullen realized to whom he was speaking. "Sorry, I meant... I don't know where Pierre is."

"Ah," she sighed and was a little lackluster in her motions. Cullen remained standing before her, facing her, and likewise glancing over her head to spot the mischievous Dorian shooting them a smirking face. He wondered how the mage could be so lighthearted, when their comrade was clearly almost compromised in ways he could not speak.

"I'm good, Cullen," she said aloud after reading his expressions.

"Good?" He hounded back as he found her words wavered too much to be trustworthy.

"I fought. Good, correct?" Her words were simple, blunt. They fell like the blow of a resolute and strong hammer smashing against molten metal. She tapped on the thick of the bandage over the base of her skull. The gesture pasted a devious grin on her face. Watching her, he knew she took great pleasure in her vengeance – whatever it entailed, he dared not ask just yet. Seeing her that way, he thought of the woman he encountered in the Fade, so regal and genteel compared to the nymph-like abandon of her carefree and jocular manner. Cullen decided that he much preferred this light-hearted Lúthien, who relished in justice properly doled out (was it?) and radiated with a spirit he considered very human.

"Correct," he replied with that fluffy and prideful gaze of a man seeing his friend overcome something. No, overcome was not the right. Overcome implied this was something that continued and will continue to plague her. Whatever her skirmish was with Pierre, she stood valiant over him, and it could be something she would brush away with a playful flick of her lithe wrist. _How lucky she was_ , he thought. A darker thought hovered over him, for he knew not many women could say the same. It enraged him to think of what Pierre tried and how many countless women he victimized.

"Does it hurt?" he asked with a bashful blush lining his cheeks. Would it matter if it did?

Lúthien shrugged. _It does and it doesn't_ , she seemed to say with that aloof stare of hers.

From the corner of his eye, Cullen saw Dorian approached. The mage gave a courteous wave so as to signal his interruption. "Forgive my intrusion," Dorian announced, "but we should get going." Cullen cocked an eyebrow. It was Dorian who stood on indecision about Pierre, but he appeared to have clearly gotten over whatever quandaries he worried over. Dorian heaved a great sigh, "We can reach the way station by the end of this day, if Lúthien's path proves true. I myself am starting to recognize the woods ahead." All their heads turn to the brighter green lined beneath the blueness of the sky. Trees were smaller in that distance, less dense, and perhaps more welcoming. Unlike the solemn shadows of the Wilds' depths, the forest to come bordered the Emerald Graves. The foliage there was younger and more hospitable. Roads etched themselves on ancient soil, and Cullen knew within miles they would not even need Lúthien's assistance. "Once we get there," the mage added, "we can ask them to send a search party for Pierre. We'll come up with an excuse." The mage looked nervously at Lúthien who remained in silent stoicism over the events of the morning.

The party nodded in agreement. Cullen held out a hand to his elven ward and helped her rise to her feet. It was a new day, and they would all meet its challenges together.

* * *

Cullen waved his hand in the air as if he could push the darkness away like an overbearing curtain. The sound of horse hooves clanking against rock filled his ears. The ambient mutter of a crowd, thousands of them... soldiers sharpening the edge of their swords.

"Commander!"

Cullen turned over his shoulder. Before him stood an Inquisition scout in salute. On his resting hand, the scout clutched a codex containing reports no doubt. An unrelenting fog enveloped the encampment, and the tall trees around them seemed to lean in – to hear their myriad voices for secrets none would or could tell.

"Report," his voice sounded so detached. He did not will himself to speak. What was this?

The scout obliged and unrolled the codex. He cleared his throat before reciting the words etched on parchment. "News from the Inquisitor..." Cullen's heart thumped loudly against the cage of his ribs. It had been weeks since he had seen her. _Weeks? Not years? Has she not been dead?_ A terrible headache reverberated against his own thoughts. "She reports that she and company will arrive at camp by nightfall. Lady Leliana has arranged for their quarters. In the meantime, Lady Josephine asks you consult directly with the Orlesians for the siege."

"Very good," he barked out. The scout bowed his head and saluted stiffly once more before folding in the parchment and springing to his next message. Cullen sighed, receding into the shell of his armor lined with the thick red mane that warmed him on so many nights. _This armor... the soldiers. Where am I?_

As Cullen watched the scout run away, he noticed something heavy surround the air. The scout's foot rose and froze midair. The ambient voices surrounding him deafened into a disquieting stillness. Everyone had stopped moving. Even the very air, the noise of the crickets, seemed suspended around him. Yet he moved. He waved his gloved hand around and saw how his gauntlets shone against the setting sun off the horizon. But even the movement of the sun appeared to be paused, and he wondered how the world stopped while he kept going.

"I thought this would be familiar to you," a woman's voice – somewhat familiar – rose from the depths. Cullen spun around, reaching for the pommel of his sword... but it was her all along.

"Where am I?" he asked somewhat confused. That same question rang in his head for what seemed like eternity.

Lúthien stood before him with that ever-evasive smile on her full lips. She was dressed differently, looked even more different than the last "dream" they shared together. She donned a pale robe, like ivory silk contrasting against the darkness of her skin. It clasped at her collarbone and fell in cascades around her waist. A long train of the same fabric wrapped around her thighs down to the soft grass. No bandage wrapped around her head like an awkward bow, neither was there a circlet lining the crown of her head. Her hair was free, dark against the pink light of the setting sun. Yet her curls were longer, falling far below her waist, the shape of which was accentuated by a loose satin belt wrapping over her belly.

"Not where, but when, Cullen." She kept smiling like she was party to something he would never be aware of.

Cullen looked down on his own attire. There was no mistaking it – he was donning the full red lion armor and regalia of his days as the Inquisition commander. He spun around in search for a looking glass, but could not find any. Around him, the surroundings were familiar. It was the unmistakable denseness of the Arbor Wilds, but it was different from the region he, Dorian, and Lúthien traveled. No, they were in its outskirts several miles from the Temple of Mythal. This was the battle that decided much of their fate, or at least the eve of that very battle.

Memories came like an outpouring as soon as he finally remembered. The Inquisitor arrived much later than nightfall, he remembered. She was waylaid by a newly opened rift, but she made it in tact with her entire entourage. It was not until close to sunrise when she visited him that night, doting on him with quick kisses and rushed whispers, his hands grazing the small of her back...

"That comes after," Lúthien said as she pulled him away from his own recollections.

"Why here? ... Why ... _this_?" He was unbelieving. In fact, he was a little more than outraged. What was _she_ doing to him by invoking these memories? By intruding upon them and living in them like some game to be played? He knew from the sudden pout of her lips that his thoughts were not safe from her here. Dreams were her realm.

"You were having a nightmare," she said as if it could explain everything. "I helped you dream of something else, and you chose this."

"Why are _you_ here?" His words stung her, he could tell. She never thought her presence was unwelcome, and this misconception was something Cullen wanted to correct as soon as possible. She frowned, truly sad for having upset him. The older man immediately regretted it, feeling petulant for his harshness.

"I was dreaming of _you_." The admission was not easy for her. That much was obvious from the way she averred her eyes like a frightened child. "When you called for help in your sleep, I'm afraid this was how I could divert your nightmares."

"I don't remember those nightmares." Cullen fought. What was he fighting? Why? He did not know. This world of dreams was so confusing, and somehow even with the stasis of action that surrounded him, it felt so unnervingly real.

Lúthien's expression was pleading yet patient. It was as if she meant to entreat him with a mere gaze for his understanding. "Of course you don't. You are conscious now, whereas, before I entered your dream, you were not."

"Is this part of your oath?" he demanded, somewhat frustrated at her elusiveness. "To help me in every possible way? To encroach my dreams and read my mind?" Rage broiled inside him, upset at her intrusiveness. Lúthien was a friend, yes, but one he just met. She was not allowed in his memories – ones he cherished and savored in remembrance of a woman he loved. To let this _other_ woman in, to let her see how well kept and preserved those moments were for him would only despoil what fondness he had left for the past. "I'm not so sure you are even an elf, or an ancient elf, Elvhen as you would call it. How do I know you are not some spirit, or even some demon?"

A sort of sober solemnity engulfed her as her shoulders lowered under the invisible but deadened weight of his accusation. She bit into her lower hip, an act that indicated just how soft and plump they were from the short distance between them. Her effect on him was maddening. One second he felt woken from an alluring trance against this bewitching vixen, the next he felt like some criminal who wounded this delicate creature. Cullen did not know from whence his emotions oscillated and swirled in their unwieldy manner, but he knew he had to stand firm. She was not allowed in what space he carved out for Lavellan.

Lúthien approached him with soundless footsteps, reaching into his hand and pulling him out of his internal defensiveness. Her fingers wrapped around one of his gloved hands. Slowly, she reached underneath the clasps of his gauntlets, unclasping the protective coverlet, and then tugged at the leather that lined and concealed his hand.

Cullen watched her movements intently, never questioning, and curious as to what she was playing at. He almost pulled back his hand, withdrawing from what he believed she was leading him towards. "Not here," he breathed in a low and husky voice. No, not here. Not there. Not at that moment, the penultimate moment frozen in time when he awaited the arrival of his then-lover. It seemed like they were treading in sacred ground.

Lúthien peered up at him with the most welcoming of smiles, happy to accept the proposition. Black walls fell over them, like curtains doming over their worlds, before the faint glow of blue surrounded them like an aura. The previous scene had all but disappeared.

"This was my home," she said. Cullen looked around, his hand still wrapped in hers as she slowly worked around his armored forearm's buckles and laces. A familiar willow tree hovered above them, large and overbearing. Yet its leaves were different. They seemed to sigh with the wind, breathing in and out the intoxicating scent of a summer night. Despite the darkness of the evening, the foliage around him glowed incandescent as if a flame pale and blue sparked in their being. The luminosity of his surroundings, however, came mostly from the still and bubbling mirror of a pond before them. He caught himself gasping, letting out a breath of awe and wonderment. A small fish, iridescent in its many scaled colors, flitted in the air. A gentle splash from the water followed it, encasing it in a bubble glowing like a dim lamp. This bubble carrying the fish hovered in the air. The life of the pond seemed to laugh as ripples came to and fro, following its direction.

Looking back at the elf, who had now undone his gauntlet, he noticed a drapery of willow leaves encased them, shelling them from the rest of the distractions. She tugged at the edges of his leather gloves and pulled at them as if breaking them down from the seams. When his naked hand revealed itself, showing the callused fingertips and bruised palms of daily sword sparring, Lúthien placed a loving kiss – gentle and somewhat religious – on the lines of his hand. "Do you still think I am not real?" she asked, her eyes rolling up towards him while her mouth was still pouted and lowered from the kiss. Lúthien then moved his palm and placed it against her face, the soft cheek he never dared or thought he wanted to touch. "Do you still think I am a demon? A desire demon perhaps?"

 _Was this a dream?_ Her skin felt so real, pulsing with life, and warm with the rush of blood against his hand. He could feel his hairs prickle on the back of his neck. While his hand was busy clutching the softness of her jawbone, the silkiness of her flesh, he could feel her breathing pulse rhythmically against his wrist. The hot air was somewhat enticing, and she hovered so close, just mere inches, that looking down, he could see the heaving of her chest in her rushed and tensioned breathing.

"A spirit?" she continued, then moving his hand down to her neck, letting him wrap the rest of his fingers around, and his thumb pressing against the other side of her neck. A flash of an image thundered in his mind. He almost strangled her that day they met, hungry for the lyrium she carried in her pouch... The remembrance startled him as shame tinged his pale skin. He wanted to hide his guilty hand away. Yet she kept him in place, holding him down, and forcing him to feel the vein that beat with life from under her chin. "I was called to help you," she said. "I should've died... Uthenera was promised to me." A single tear rolled down her cheek. He seemed to understand from how tense her body was, how much of a struggle she had with breathing that there was something waiting to burst from inside of her. "But I awakened knowing I had to help you..." She closed her eyes and moved his hand away finally, burying her head against his armored chest. Still, he was in that regalia. Somehow, the metal encasing him seemed a disservice to her. "Now I realize..." Her voice seemed to choke for the lack of control. There was another revelation she herself did not grasp, "that there was more to my awakening than a promise. Something wills me to you, and I don't understand it."

Cullen wondered how much of this was voluntary, if she had a will to even speak of. Was she simply magnetized to him by virtue of an oath? Could his earlier predictions be right in that his wife, from the depths of the Beyond, lives through her? It seemed so wrong. Wrong to possess another, but how can he explain Lúthien's own awareness and consciousness of her actions? It was a quagmire neither could escape. The question of will, or even of love, could not even begin to enter.

Lúthien raised her eyes at him, casting a stern glance. "Do you still think I am some creature to be feared?" A gentle hand, _his_ ungloved hand, stroked the black locks falling from the back of her head. He reached for the already-healed scar, feeling for it, and there, protruding like marred flesh, her scar rested. She purred slightly at how he was caressing the scar, feeling his skin tingling against hers and how his fingers tangled up in the web of her hair. "Shemlen always destroy what they can't understand," her words were solemn as her eyes darted to their surroundings – all enchanted and magical. Cullen was unsure if she referred to the cataclysm Solas unleashed, as Lavellan had divulged to him all those years ago, or if she referred to Pierre and his rapine hatefulness. Maybe both. "Would you be the same?" her lips shook, somewhat parted and ready for his answer.

Cullen breathed heavily, rubbing the scar on her head while his other hand wrapped around her waist and held her there against his chest. He thought of those few days traveling the wilds, glossed over by minute-long sessions of learning each other's words, hunting for food, and climbing against arduous terrain. Despite his training as a Templar, his unwavering faith in the Chantry, he was not as afraid of ancient ruins and veiled truths as he thought. That he believed Lúthien's story, her words, and the reasons for her presence was proof of that.

Lúthien smiled. His silence, the way he leaned forward, pressing her head closer to him, breathing mere inches apart, was enough of an answer to her question. Her eyes fluttered shut as she evaded his lips, parted and hungry, towards his ear. "Thank you," she whispered.

The images evanesced, and before long Cullen sat up from his cot gasping for air. His eyes opened to the scenery before him. The cackle of a waning fire, Dorian snoring and rolled over unflatteringly in his own cot, and, across the fire from him, Lúthien lying down on the bare soil... Her eyes were closed in tranquil sleep, and her lips were curled in a pleasant smile as she hugged her waist against the cold evening breeze. _She_ was still dreaming.


	7. Chapter 7

It took them, in fact, a day and a half to finally reach the outskirts of the Wilds. The three huddled close to the edge of a hill overlooking the small encampment. In the middle stood a small wooden house marked as their way station manned by several Orlesian royal guards. Next to it, a small inn, humble with a smoking chimney pumping out a column of black smoke, stood with its shanty drooping over to the side. Cullen saw several men go in and out of both buildings, and though it was quiet, seeing so many people all at once somehow gave him a welling knot in his stomach. He glanced over to Lúthien on his right, who looked even more apprehensive about the prospect of descending upon the settlement and... _socializing_.

"No," she said, crossing her arms while pouting at the two.

Dorian had spent the past twenty-four hours thinking of a plan and being the brains behind their little rag tag team of... whatever. He was not about to foil his cunning to accommodate her shyness. "And why not?"

Lúthien's eyes darted over to Cullen with a pleading look. She did not have the words to convey precisely why, but she hoped her friend could be persuaded.

Cullen glanced nervously between the two, seeing that both of them wanted him on their side. He swallowed hard before turning back to the scene of the way station settlement and pondered the situation they were in. "She's probably afraid, Dorian. Her encounter with humans hasn't exactly been friendly." What he actually noticed was that the way station was visibly populated by people who could remind her of Pierre. The guards all wore masked helms. Their accouterments were similarly frilly and brightly colored. To her, they were all Pierre, or at least, men who could act and treat her in the same way.

Dorian sighed and rolled his eyes. "You know, your prince charming get-up is getting annoying," he grumbled. Cullen ignored him, as he always did when Dorian teased him about anything personal or intimate. The Tevinter Magister assumed his dignified airs before turning to Lúthien and addressing the problem. With a sigh, he assumed a friendlier tone, "I might have a way around that, my dear." His hands went to the sides of her head, ready to undo the bandage that wrapped around her skull, but before he laid his hands on her, he asked in a somewhat irreverent tone, "My lady, may I?"

Lúthien nodded and shot him a curious look. With her assent, Dorian undid the knot of her bandage. Though it mostly went off without a hitch, Dorian had to pull on the fabric a little when he peeled a layer over her dried and blood-crusted wound. The elf grimaced a little when she felt it tug at healing scab. Otherwise she made no noise of complaint. "We needed to clean that anyway," the mage remarked. Next to him, Cullen already and preemptively took out their last and cleanest bandage. His Tevinter friend took it gratefully and not without a wink of approval. "We will pretend your injury is a _lot_ worse than it is." Carefully, he unwrapped it from the base of her skull, over her healing scab, over her hair, and around her skull. He added another layer, and around her head again, this time moving up over her temples, and wrapping around her ears. When he finished, he knotted the bandage close to the crown of her head. He puckered his lips and beamed proudly at his work, "Voila!"

The elf's fingers felt around her head, wondering what in the Creators' names he had done. She noticed Cullen stifling a chuckle, with his lip scar twitching at the sight of her. She blushed as she was unsure exactly what his reaction meant. But that feeling of timidity quickly evolved into utter repulsion once she realized that the mage not only covered her ears with the new wrap, but that, feeling above them to the top of her head, he had actually mummified the upper half of her head. Her lips pouted in seething rage, feeling ridiculous and humiliated.

Dorian, who was rather proud of his own wit, tried to calm her down with a soft smile, "Oh hush! You look adorable!" Cullen did not want to fan the flames, so he remained silent but not without snickering. _Adorable_ , yes that was what she looked.

"Ir abelas, Lúthien," Cullen spoke apologetically in hopes of currying her mercy. "Dorian means well. You will attract less attention now." Lúthien's heart fluttered a little in hearing him speak a phrase – a word or two – that she taught him. Perhaps they took her a little more seriously, after all, and respected what little she carried over from her past life. It calmed her spirits, prompting her to nod in accordance with their plan. The men turned their attention back to the settlement, but the elf's gaze lingered on her friend a little too longingly.

Cullen was not unaware of this development. Since the night before, when they shared in another "dream," his awareness of her had been a little too acute for comfort. He would catch her glancing at him, and often she too would catch his own wandering looks as they all traveled down the dirt road leading out of the Wilds. Cullen wanted to say something, or perhaps indicate to her that he had more questions than answers and about the haziness of whatever passions may have swirled about them.

He remembered how close they were in that dream, how affectionate she was, and how tantalizingly close he was to kissing her! Throughout the day, he would look at his hand – the one Lúthien ungloved and caressed – and wondered whether their waking reality was the true one. How could it be when the memory of her skin, of how soft and warm she was, still rested on his hand? At times, he found himself reaching for his ear and around the slight of his neck. He could have sworn he could still feel her breathing against it, whispering a soft "thank you" before he was whisked away back to the waking world. For her part, Lúthien hadn't said or really done anything to acknowledge it even happened. Aside from her curious looks, she hadn't changed her behavior; neither did she go out of her way to clarify for him what in the world was going on.

The warrior was a little grateful that Dorian had not acknowledged or even perceived any of the somewhat uncomfortable progression in their airs. For the past day, he had been too busy hijacking Cullen's lessons with Lúthien and directing her to "more proper" speech. He taught her "how do you" in the same breath she taught them, "Andaran atish'an," as an equivalent greeting. She and Dorian exchanged so many phrases that their brief day together efficiently expanded her lexicon of the Common Tongue. The mage himself felt confident that, in a couple days, he could proceed to teach her their writing system.

"Are you ready?" Cullen asked both of them, turning to each of his side and gauging their preparedness. Dorian bobbed his head in affirmation. The Ferelden warrior then turned to Lúthien, who gulped and stifled a protest before nodding to him as well. "Good?" he asked to make sure.

"Good," she answered with a little gleam in her deep brown eyes.

* * *

The settlement healer glanced curiously at Lúthien, casting a nervous and concerned wrinkle of the brow. "Are you sure you don't want me to check her?" The heavy bandaging suggested to her that their new guest suffered a mighty blow if not a grave and serious injury. Perhaps the makeshift poultice and ointment currently wrapped around her dead did not sufficiently clean the wound. It was a possibility they had to rule out. Surely, they were open to help.

Lúthien shook her head vigorously in protest before turning to the aged, blond man who accompanied her into the way station. Across the room, the Tevinter Magister was answering questions from the settlement constable, who oversaw the inspection of their belongings. The petite woman clasped her hands together in anxiety. Clearly she did not want to interact, much less communicate. The man next to her served to answer questions in her stead. The healer frowned seeing that her potential patient could be mute. She hoped, against all hopes, that the young woman was not, after all, lorded over by both men.

Cullen, unaware of the old woman's suspicions, smiled timidly and attempted to translate the desperation in Lúthien's pleas. "She is quite alright, my lady. Thank you for the offer." He bowed his head respectfully and let out a nervous laugh in hopes of appearing more sociable. "Her wound is close to fully healing. Really, we only meant to pass through." Yet his excuses and explanations did not convince the healer, who scowled at them like mischievous children. His heart pounded, and the thumping in his temple was ceaseless. Somehow returning to civilization was a lot more difficult than he thought. Everyone seemed too watchful, and every gesture laid him out like an open book.

His disguised elven ward turned to him with a fretful expression. She could sense the trepidation wringing his heart and the anxiety that loomed in the presence of so many people. Acting on impulse, much to her heart's desire, she reached out for his hand and squeezed it gently. She hoped the gesture would lend him some courage and calm his nerves, but all she received was a look of restrained shock from her shemlen companion. His heart thumped louder, and for a moment, he seemed to jolt against her touch. She regretted her show of affection and, with a disappointed frown, let go of his hand.

The healer, who at this point began to rearrange her potions and phials in preparation of dismissal, raised a questioning eyebrow at the curious couple. "Married, are you?" The question was more of a hopeful expectation than a serious inquiry. It was so unseemly for such a young woman, beautiful and so scantily clad in makeshift leathers and furs, to be traveling unabashedly in the company of two men. Lúthien – that was her name? – seemed so forward, too. It would be unseemly indeed, especially in the more civilized and proper parts of Orlais for her to travel around with such disregard of moral and social conduct.

Cullen immediately froze and reddened. The question seized him into a sort-of paralysis, completely unable to account for anything they may have implied. Behind him, footfalls sounded against the wooden floorboards, and Dorian's familiar entrance made itself heard. "Why, yes and no! Sweethearts eternally betrothed," he cooed with a proud and romantic sigh as he wedged himself between the two. From the side, his former commander glared at him in tempestuous rage.

"Oh?" wondered the Healer audibly. Already she was taken away by the Tevinter nobleman's poetic inflection and regal airs. "I hope they are speedily wedded. It is only proper," she added, intoning the wisdom and counsel of an elder who definitely knew better. The healer scanned their hands for the one band to prove it all. "No ring?" Improper, indeed.

Cullen instantly clasped his hands behind his back and squared his shoulders. He absolutely loathed the scrutiny they were put under, and he was a little more than upset at Dorian for encouraging their drivel.

"Why, part of the reason they are still unmarried," Dorian hurriedly explained. An apologetic smile curved his lips, as he bowed his head. "Gold is hard to come by, my lady. These humble friends of mine make their living from trapping fur. Of course, the market is always down in times of crisis." The explanation was _so_ suave, so convincing that Cullen wondered just how often Dorian had to grovel as part of his profession. It was extremely unlike him, for he recalled the times when the mage would deliberately insult or mock another stuffy noble in his own debonair way. What happened? Why was he so insistent to please? Cullen and Dorian were worlds apart in terms of family history and mannerisms, but they both despised pretense – or at least it was one of the few traits they had in common.

"Tsk, tsk," the healer clicked her tongue. Shame over the youth! Although the golden-haired man seemed to certainly be beyond youth with his salt and pepper beard and greying sideburns. She detested when couples, rapt in carnality and base desire, rushed off to marriage without having the means to see the promise through. It was so characteristically foolish when one could just as easily wait for a more lucrative proposition and have it done the _proper_ way.

Content with her reaction, Dorian bowed his head once more. "Now if you'll excuse us." He wrapped his arms around both Lúthien and Cullen's waists, guiding them elsewhere and away from the scenery. He almost pushed them across the hall leading out to the entrance. Cullen got the hint and picked up his pace. Dorian kept smiling from ear to ear at each passerby. From the corner of his mustache, he whispered into Cullen's ear, "Remember friend, you should hold your sweet heart's hand! Poor thing is still injured." The malicious grin revealed just how much Dorian was enjoying the teasing. But at this point, Cullen was beyond the impulse to react and correct his friend. He understood, more than anyone, that Dorian loved attention. If flirting were not an option, then grandstanding and cavalier banter would be just as viable.

He ignored the remark, although he could see from the corner of his eye that Lúthien winced at his abrupt coldness towards her. _Maker, what did they want?!_ Cullen swallowed his pride _and_ his embarrassment. Pausing to face Lúthien with a stern and frustrated look, he snatched her hand and held her by the wrist, almost dragging her out of the building.

Lúthien was rapt in confusion. Cullen's coldness and conflicted behavior unsettled her, and for a second, she wished they were once more in the privacy and secluded shelter of the forest. Surely, he would not be so ashamed of her there. A sigh of disappointment escaped her lips, curling down to a frown, unhappy that she had been forced to go through a shemlen village. When all three of them exited through the doorway, her hand still chained by Cullen's more aggressive grip, she noted the villagers' strange garb and their sanctimonious swagger. The people of the settlement looked as if they were ready to prance, and their posture indicated the omnipresence of watchful eyes. She imagined what an uncomfortable life shemlen must lead.

"Cullen, let's make a stop here," Dorian pointed to the makeshift market set up by the camp entrance. There were three stalls at most, one holding foods and edible assortments, another holding weapons and arms, and the last holding trinkets.

Cullen paused to look before settling in to another mode of aggravation. "Maker's breath... why _should_ we make this stop?" Suddenly, he recalled in a short visit to Val Royeux years before when an overly eager Dorian dragged his late wife around the late marché, convincing her to squander her credit and reserve of Inquisition coffers to parade in the latest Orlesian fashion.

"You're being ridiculous. I hope you know that," Dorian chided with a menacing side eye. The mage then grabbed Lúthien by her other wrist and snagged her away from Cullen's grip, swinging her like a rag doll. Her chocolate-colored eyes bulged in confusion. "We can't have her going around like this!" He pointed to her clothing. "She looks very..., well... _wild_."

For once since they arrived, Cullen agreed. She looked hapless. Though the bandage head wrapping was enough to elicit a comical effect, her leathers exacerbated whatever ridicule she might have suffered from Orlesians. It occurred to him that she still walked barefoot. Her naked feet danced gracefully in the winding trees of the ancient forests, but in the paved roads of Orlais, she looked juvenile and out of place. The asymmetrical style of her leather vestments and her torn leggings would only attract rather than repel attention. With a sigh, he conveyed agreement.

The elf, on the other hand, looked up and down her body with a tinge of ruby shame staining her cheeks. She saw the way they studied her full figure and knew, from the way even the other villagers looked at her, that she must indeed appear ridiculous. Her hands wrapped around her waist as she lowered her head down to the ground. The scrutiny was a little unbearable, and, worst of all, Cullen – her only friend in this shemlen world – was participating in it.

"Come," Cullen commanded, motioning with his hand for Lúthien to follow him. He sensed her troubles, seeing with the full pout of her lips how unfriendly they all must have been to her. His arm ran down against his neck again, a reflex out of habit, but that habit was now tinged with an emotion and memory he would never live down. It was still there from the night before, that curious and alluring whisper, and her breathing falling down from his ear to his neck. "We'll get you a hat," he said in soft-spoken reassurance. "It would be better than that ridiculous thing on your head." He smiled as a peace offering, hoping to humor her spirits. But her expression remained unchanged. Shortly thereafter, Cullen decided to just move on over to the stall of trinkets in order to make amends.

Dorian reveled in this little lovers' spat – did it count as one? – and the way his former commander was just _so_ eager to please. As the three walked over to the stall, the merchant supervising the wares gave them a scanning glance before deciding, quite undeservedly, that they were too haggard to be big spenders. He merely nodded his head as the only sign of hospitality he would give them. Hanging next to the stall was a rack carrying an assortment of robes, dyed in various and sundry colors.

The merchant spied Dorian sifting through them, and immediately he noticed for whom this special trip was. "Hand-woven robes for the lady? Made from the finest silk weavers of Val Royeux!" he announced, eyeing the strangely dressed young woman. Shame, he thought, she was very pretty though clumsily dressed. He wondered if these two foreigners had a hand in the atrocity before them. "Try this," he urged, picking out lavender silk from the assortment and placing it over Lúthien's front. "Compliments her darker skin. It's a favorite among the Antivan royalty!"

Dorian eyed the merchant suspiciously, immediately sensing that the silk was poorly woven, and the color was gaudy at best. He may not look at it, but he had the proficient eye of a fashionable courtier. Ignoring his suggestion, Dorian proceeded to rummage through the rack for the right one.

Cullen, on the other hand, was sifting through hats piled atop another on the stall table, next to ornamentations and garish jewelry. All the hats he saw, however, would only worsen rather than ameliorate Lúthien's outlandishness. He wanted something that would look a little more natural to her. Not too "civilized," as they called it with ostentatious decoration and frilly vanity. He preferred something that complemented her simple and arboreal elegance without attracting any suspicion or raising eyebrows from the ravenous public eye.

"Ah ha!" Dorian exclaimed in glee. He picked out, not a robe in gaudy pastel colors but a muted blue tunica in the likeness of the Chiton women proudly wore in the Tevinter Imperium. It was a large, cascading ruched fabric laced together over the shoulders. The particular shade of blue, light and understated against the brightness of day, contrasted against Lúthien's sun kissed sun, evoking a more sophisticated radiance than the previous selection. He handed it to Lúthien as it hovered before her. The merchant, without wasting time, brought out a looking glass and held it from a distance so he could reflect her full figure.

Lúthien looked curiously at the mirror, contemplating the dress. Wrinkles lined her forehead. She wasn't quite able to picture how the large and overwhelming fabric would wrap around her well. Would she be able to even walk in it? A sigh of resignation escaped through her lips. If it meant they would stop hounding or scrutinizing her, she would agree. Her chin lowered in a respectful nod while glancing over to the aloof Cullen, who was still searching for the perfect headgear.

Magister Pavus did not even bother consulting or confirming with either of them. His hand immediately reached for the sack hanging on his back and rummaged for his small pouch of gold. "How much he asked?"

"Three gold pieces," smiled the merchant. His happiness in the announcement was a little too patronizing.

"Fasta vaas!" Dorian swore hissing under his breath. "This is highway robbery," he chided with a furrow of his brow. Knowing this, he still counted out the gold and placed it menacingly on the merchant's beckoning hand. The merchant bowed in emolument before turning his attention to the other man.

"Messere, if I may," he disrupted Cullen from his careful sifting. The merchant drew something out of a box behind the table. On his hand lay carefully folded linen the color of ivory. Its hem was laced with gold trimming. "A veil instead of a hat, if messere wishes for an accessory to accompany the dress." The merchant's grin was a little disquieting too Cullen. He hated these kinds of interactions, where one kowtowed at another for the sake of profit.

Another man approached the three from the way station. A foot soldier whose metal armor banged against the solid rock of the gravel beneath their feet. He hurriedly marched to Dorian before whispering from beneath that signature Orlesian mask into the Tevene's ear. Once the hushed and muttered words were conveyed, the soldier saluted before marching back into the building. The distracted Cullen ignored the merchant for a moment and looked at his friend inquisitively. "Well?"

Dorian adopted a more sober countenance. "The constable wants me to lead the search party for Pierre."

Lúthien's ear flicked from underneath the bandages at the sound of his name. She eyed Dorian curiously, wondering how sincere these efforts were and whether they cared to rectify his assault on her body. "Leaving?" she asked innocently, masking whatever emotions or suspicions she harbored in that respect. Her fingers searched for the twine of the bow wrapped over across her torso, slinging the gleaming bow on her back.

The mage shook in refusal. "No, just me." He said. He waved a hand to stop Cullen from walking towards him. "The constable wants this to be a quieter job. You two stay." The mage pointed to the inn with its roof drooping slightly to the side, like a lopsided cottage. "The constable arranged for us to have a room at the inn." Without a word, he handed the pouch of gold to Cullen. "Get her that pretty veil," he said smirking. Turning to Lúthien, he bowed his head in a genteel manner. "A gift from both of us – _enansal_ ," he too showed off his prowess for learning another language."

Cullen was not so convinced as to Dorian's explanations for their staying behind. He wondered if the Magister thought it too dangerous to bring the warrior, whose overprotectiveness and vindictiveness over the attempted rape bore a little too close to home. Lúthien, on the other hand, who, by all appearances, was indifferent to the whole ordeal, would have been the best for tracking him down. Cullen grimaced, however, knowing that neither men could bring themselves to force another encounter between the two.

"Messere?" the merchant cut through Cullen's reverie.

The Ferelden nodded. "How much?" Somehow, he blocked out the merchant's answer, not really paying attention to their conversation. Without thinking about it, he handed him two gold pieces – hoping he gave the correct amount. The merchant's lips lit with a grin, confirming to Cullen that he had indeed been liberal in his coin-counting, and wrapped both garments in a bag before handing it to Lúthien, who pressed the gifts close to her chest.

"A pleasure," the merchant quipped as they turned to walk away.

Some distance away from the small market place, Cullen began to pace towards the inn. "We should rest, and maybe you can try on your new clothes." Lúthien smiled, happy to see his mood lighten amid the distraction.

* * *

The innkeeper, a sour old man with a balding patch of hair and a waist the size of a cauldron's girth, laughed a jolly laugh as he showed the two their room. "You are allowed three meals per day. Sunrise, high noon, and dusk are our serving times. Each morning after breakfast, I will knock and see if you need me to refill your bath water." His hand pointed to a large silver basin-like tub adjacent to the small windowsill across the room. A few feet from the basin stood a rustic bed made of a creaky wooden frame and a straw mattress covered in ragged cotton.

Lúthien ambled up to the bed and plopped herself on its edge with the wrapped gifts sitting quietly on her lap. A frown tinted her lips, perhaps disappointed with how bouncy and itchy the straw mattress actually was. She preferred the cool and smooth silkiness of dewy grass, and the roughness of firm earth to stiffen the curve of her back. Seeing her happily settled, the innkeeper proceeded to pour out a bucket of water he had been carrying into the basin. Satisfied with the water level, the old man smiled at the couple before heading back to the door to exeunt. The door slammed shut behind him, and in the privacy of the room, Cullen finally felt he could breathe. With a sigh, he dropped his canvas bag on the floor as he leaned against the door, ruffling the unruly curls jutting from his head.

"Good?" the elf asked. Her fingers clutched tightly at her gift – garments she seemed so disinterested in just moments earlier. Yet Dorian's declaration that they were heart felt trinkets, like enansal, elicited from her a great affection for the clothes.

"Not quite," Cullen answered in a sheepish smile. He glanced over to her lap where the newly bought belongings were. "You should try those on. I'll..."

The elf rose excitedly from her spot on the bed, cutting Cullen off in her hurried enthusiasm. Her fingers violently tore through the bag and freed from it her newly prized possessions. She held out the long train of fabric that was the dress, blue and shimmering against the sunlight pouring from the window. Seeing her so delighted at the otherwise mundane clothing widened the smile on Cullen's lips. Somehow, he felt okay to be alone with her in the room. She had a calming presence, one that sheltered him from the bitter judgments and loud pretensions of the other way station dwellers. "... head down to grab us some food," he finished. But before he could even turn to open the door, Lúthien hastily proceeded to unlace her vestments. She bit her lower lip in immitigable anticipation, excited to try on for him and to show him how she could look in shemlen attire.

Cullen spun around and hid his noticeable embarrassment. He ceased to be shocked by her forwardness and openness, but it was nonetheless a cause for awkward situations. Just the day before, she enjoined him and Dorian to bathe with her in a small pond in the outskirts of the Wilds (an invitation he was more than happy to refuse even in spite of Dorian egging him on). He wondered at Ancient Elven conduct, and whether or not they were truly as free as she seemed to display. "I'll... I'll be right back." And in a flash he opened the door and slammed it shut as soon as his entire body entered the corridor leading to the stairs.

Cullen's heart palpitated long after he descended the stairs and approached the barkeep of the inn. The barkeep was a woman, perhaps the same age as the innkeeper. She looked irritatingly at a metal dish she seemed to have been scrubbing for longer than necessary. Indifferent to her effort to be distracted from her patrons, Cullen approached her anyway, "Could I have a meal for two? We are the new guests." His request prompted the woman to raise an eyebrow suspiciously.

"Where's the other one?" she demanded in a husky and coarse voice. Her accent was strangely something reminiscent of Kirkwall and not of Orlais like her business partner. Cullen wondered how someone like her ended up all the way in the southern reaches of Orlais manning a humble and barely populated bar in an obscure inn.

"She's upstairs," he answered politely.

"Oh, the new couple." Her remark made Cullen squint his eye with a little twitch of his scar. The new label was going to follow him throughout his stay in the way station, and he dreaded hearing the onset of eyes prying into his life. From behind the bar, she procured two bowls and filled them with what looked like gruel – a staple he was undoubtedly accustomed to as a veteran of many wars and his current status as a wandering vagabond. He wondered to himself, however, whether Lúthien would eat. Though she did not at all show any hints of starvation, he knew she barely ate if at all. The most he'd seen her eat was an apple he practically forced on her. Cullen bit his lip in consternation, wondering at the strange and unhealthy diet the elf partook.

"Any problems?" the barkeep asked after reading Cullen's sullen expression. She handed him a tray for carrying both meals.

He shook his head in response. "No, not at all. Thank you." Silently he crossed his back way through the sparsely populated inn and up over the stairs, ascending carefully so as to keep the food intact. Once at the top, he slowly ambled his way to the door. Cullen balanced the tray with one hand as the other hovered over the wooden door to fell a resounding knock. Gently, the loud taps thudded rhythmically against the wood. "Lúthien?" he called out so she could recognize his voice.

"Good!" her muffled yell came from behind the door. Cullen couldn't help but chuckle at her catchall word. _Good_.

Opening the door, a smile softer than wool perked his lips. There she was, and how could he expect any less? To say she was beautiful was perhaps already self-evident, but, to his surprise, he felt neither the urge nor excitement that could steal his breath away. All he felt was prideful enrapture. Lúthien stood in the center of the room, twirling about as she struggled to fasten the laces over her arms. She wore the dress with the same noble air and poise as she appeared to him in their dreams. Somehow, she remained dignified and amiable, beautiful and nymph-like in her unawareness of his gaze. The light blue indeed accentuated her delectably brown, tawny skin. Over her shoulders, the lacings were a little loose as she continued to tighten them over her exposed shoulder. The dress itself draped down like a waterfall of silk over her dainty frame, giving her more height and regality. Cullen immediately regretted the dress's purchase. It would most certainly _not_ detract attention. It would only beckon more towards her, no doubt catching more lascivious and covetous eyes from men and women alike. Still, he could say she was with him. Perhaps not romantically "with" him, as it shouldn't be, but "with" him as a guardian, protector, and friend. Lúthien would have nothing to fear.

Over her head, Cullen noticed she still wore the ridiculous head wrap concealing her Elven ears. A playful laugh rumbled from his throat as he walked over the mattress to gently lay down the tray, next to her discarded leathers. "You still have the bandage," he remarked with a wistful grin. The older man ambled behind her, closer to the window, and placed meek hands over the knot wrapping around her temple. Slowly, he pulled on a loose end and unraveled it, revealing a thick mass of black hair happy to breathe free air once more. Alas, when the last of the rag was removed, her ears perked happily to the sides after an hour or so straining against its mold under the bandage. Though her back faced him, he could tell she reveled in how much care he took in helping her. He wondered if these gestures were not dangerous or, perhaps more likely, misleading. Cullen backed away once the deed was done, and the contented smile on his lips evaporated into a stern and reproachful glare. Not at her, of course, but at himself.

Lúthien rotated on her hips to glance over her shoulder at him and saw the displeasure in his expression. Discouraged, she immediately turned back around and motioned as if to move towards the bed and wrap herself in the protective veil. Her limbs stayed frozen, however. Whatever will possessed her and warmed her heart at the thought of her shemlen friend, it relished at the proximity of his presence. Her heart skipped many beats, and her lungs tensed from the heavy air permeating them. Lúthien clasped both her hands in front of her, tangling her fingers together in nervousness. How could he be so frightened? So unaware? No, he _was_ aware. He _knew_ , but like most mortals, he cowered in the face of the truth. A bitter taste of disappointment engulfed her lips just at the thought, and she proceeded to the parchment left on the bed. She ran her fingers through the softness of the linen. Smooth, yes, but not as soft as the woven fabric of her people. The elf wondered if she would ever see or feel it again.

"You look beautiful," Cullen said somewhat spontaneously. He blushed at his own words, meaning to instead apologize for how he was behaving. Instead, he uttered what was exactly in his thoughts, and Maker, he wanted to die and crawl into a hole.

Lúthien jumped up in surprise. "Thank you," her politeness and the slight accent haunting her speech made her all the more alluring and minx-like. She hadn't turned around to face him as she too was hiding away from embarrassment. Instead, Lúthien focused on the task before her, unwrapping the veil and unfolding it to boast of its wondrous size and length. The width and length of the fabric was altogether unruly, and she wondered how she could even see from underneath it.

As the elf struggled to arrange the linen over her hair, Cullen laughed a little and leaned against the bedpost across from her. "Maybe you should take a break from that and eat. The food is getting cold." He pointed at the two bowls of gruel, sitting over a bent metal tray on the bed. No dining table or chair in sight. _Bed and lunch it is_ , he thought. Lúthien nodded in assent, sitting gently on her bed so as not to ruffle her new dress. The way she protected and straightened out the skirt of the chiton was something he found endearing, like a young lady prideful of a new trinket. It was a little too much.

Cullen took his bowl greedily and spooned himself a mouthful. Although not the most appetizing of lunches, it was surprisingly sweeter than he thought and more filling than it looked. A few bites were enough for him before he carefully set the bowl aside, back on its tray. Across from him on the other end of the bed, Lúthien sat pondering her meal. She looked at it not with disgust but in mesmerized confusion. What was this pasty white liquid? Warm, and yet looking as if it carried grains of maggots? She decided then and there that shemlen did not know how to cook, neither did they have the tongues to enjoy _real_ and good food. Still, it didn't matter. Her body could withstand days if not weeks without the hogwash, unlike her human companions, who needed to eat every few hours or so.

"Not hungry?" Cullen asked glancing between her and her untouched bowl.

"No," she replied.

He cast her a chiding look, as if to command her to eat. The habit was really worrying, and he wondered how she hadn't starved this entire time.

"Why won't you eat?" his question had a commanding inflection, as if he was entitled to a justifiable and reasonable answer – nothing less.

Lúthien's lips curled once more to a disappointing pout. He was displeasing her all through the day, it seemed. No matter, her health was more important. They could not possibly undertake a journey in search of the renegade elves and Solas without first gathering strength wherever they can. "Shemlen food is not good," she admitted. The words rolled out in surprising fluidity, a sign that she was rapidly improving and perhaps would soon speak as fluently as they. Much to their embarrassment, neither Cullen nor Dorian made the same progress. Cullen wondered at this answer. What was the difference? What did Elvhen consume in their day?

"What _would_ you eat? Could you tell me?" He voiced his opinion hoping to rectify the situation.

But she did not respond. Lúthien simply stared him down with those deadpan eyes. It was a habit of hers, he noticed. Anytime she thought something was pointless, or anytime they made a request of her that baffled her, she would become an impassioned wall absorbing all their entreaties without any acknowledgment or motion to answer. As if to settle the matter once and for all, she took the bowl and placed it underneath the bed, willing it out of existence. The elf bit her lip in reprisal knowing full well what wrong she had just committed.

Before he could chide her in protest, Lúthien rose from the bed and walked over towards the small window. Would window be the proper word? It was small, circular, like a perfect hole in the wall covered in transparent glass. Smudges and fingers from past guests stained its smooth surface, and through it, Lúthien could see the coming and goings of travelers, of merchants, and of wanderers. Very few people actually lived in this tiny settlement. So tiny, she wondered what the point was in making something so transient and weak, like shambles tied together by rope.

"What do you see?" Cullen asked, willing to forget whatever had upset her in his inquiries. He relaxed his muscles as he sat more to the center of bed. It was a little more acceptable now that she was across the room, safe from any insinuations or possible scandalizing scenarios.

"Your people..." she mumbled, looking out in a deadened gaze. "They are..." The sentenced paused midway as she searched the back of her mind for just the right word. Meticulous and precise. That was how she chose to speak. "Strange." Lúthien noted the bizarre and useless ornamentations men and women wore. She thought of the cumbersome armor the soldiers used for protection, but how much protection could it offer if it weighed one down like a snail?

The older shemlen laughed, a little amused that she finally pronounced judgment on his race. "Yes, we are a strange people. But to them, you are also strange, unless we do our best to make you blend in. Otherwise they..."

"Are afraid?" she cut him off, "frightened?" He knew from whence those words came. Lúthien thought of Pierre, but not the perverse act he tried on her. She recalled his words, his attempt to instill fear and this sense of alienation in her. Lúthien, childish and however capricious she may act, was a discerning woman. "I hide my ears, so shemlen won't be afraid, correct?" Her hand traced the cartilage of her ear lobe, feeling up to the ear's pointed end, and she then recalled the vicious names. "Knife ear," she whispered in echo of what Pierre called her. "Rabbit," her forefinger and thumb pinched at the length, noticing for once how unusual she must have looked compared to them.

Cullen grimaced. He never realized how deep the Orlesian's words cut. Yet he could not bring himself to refute her in his anger. How could he? All these years, even when the most powerful woman in the world, the Inquisitor, at the time was a Dalish elf, he never acted on righting the wrongs of history. He never tried to erase those hurtful names and never tried to address the millennium-long oppression of an entire people. Now, here, a true relic of the past, an Elvhen wavers under its pressure. People would always look at her as inferior, even if she came from a better time more golden (if only to her) time.

 _Shemlen always destroy what they can't understand_ , she said to him in their dream, but he knew deep in his heart she was wrong. They destroy anything and everything they do not consider to be human.

"I eat, so people will think I am shemlen, correct?" Lúthien's question struck an unexpected blow to his chest. Cullen felt his lungs tighten, unsure how to properly or justifiably answer her. Did she think he was ashamed to be near her? That they were deliberately and unabashedly trying to erase who she was? Nothing could be father from the truth. It was all for her safety.

She turned away from the window fully satiated with the scenery and faced the creature to whom she just dealt and swift and unforeseen blow. He saw a severity in her expression. Her neck was craned stiff, holding her head high. The clasps that laced the wide sleeves of her chiton exposed the bare skin of her arms, showing just how thin and square her limbs were compared to the billowy extent of the fabric. "Correct?" she repeated when he would give no answer. Speechless in his interrogation, Cullen remained seated and looked down on his lap. He was a little unsure how or why he felt torn by some moral failure on his part.

"I'm sorry." Cullen's voice pushed through the heavy sobriety of her demeanor. "I'm not very good at this..." Lúthien drew an eyebrow at the poorly worded apology. "I'm not very good at showing that I care," he continued. "The elves of this world are not like you. They..." A smile crept up to his lips when a vision flashed before his eyes. He remembered Lavellan – the Inquisitor – and her _notorious_ appetite. He recalled a moment in a long and drawn-out meeting in the war room when, amidst high tensions and bickering, the raucous and gut wrenching roar of her stomach made itself heard. Cullen almost laughed, but he stifled it to the remnant of a chortle stuck in the back of his throat. "They are actually quite a lot like us, shemnlen. They need to eat and sleep very often." His eyes fell wistfully on his lap, thinking how precious it was for him to remember something he had buried long ago. "I just worry for you, because I know how strange waking up to a different world can be." Did he? Gaunt lines ran through his face. The sight of blood and the smell of rotting flesh... An entire future decimated in one poor decision. Yes, he did.

Lúthien smiled, knowing she conveyed to him a part of life or perhaps even herself. As if to bestow mercy, she walked back towards him, to his side. Slowly, she knelt before him, letting him look at her from higher ground. Her eyes, in the shadowy corners of the room, were the black pools Cullen recognized, no longer sad, no longer drowning in inherited suffering, but in inviting affection. She toyed with him like this, making him feel the ebb of centuries before quietly sweeping him away from it. "Cullen," she whispered, her voice so low like and songlike that all the memories he conjured – those that weighed on him so heavily – melted away.

Cullen looked sternly at the being before him. She was kneeling as if in genuflection. His hands, so starved of what they wanted most, held on to the face that peered up at him with so much power and yet, somehow, with so much frailty. Her lids closed as if in heavy sleep, burying her right cheek against his hand, in the same manner as the night before in the dulcet memory of their dream together. Lúthien wanted to remind him, to reenact for him, the sort of warmth she felt and emanated with his touch, unreal as it may be in the world of sleep. Cullen relished in feeling the softness of her flesh, so tender and full of life. Whatever arguments he put up, the barriers he set up in defense against her, they all dissipated in this newfound and maddening joy of _feeling_ her in his hands.

"People _are_ afraid of you," Cullen admitted as he held on to her, trying to soften the blow. "They have no reason to be, but they are. It's the world we live in now, and the most we can do... the most _I_ can do is hide you from it."

His honest words rang eerily similar. Lúthien suddenly recalled the judgment that pronounced her doom, the words that condemned her to eternal sleep. _They fear us. It is no longer our world. All we can do is bide our time... hiding in the shadows. You must sleep_. Strange. The sound of their voices emanated in her ears and swelled to a deafening cry. The elf winced in pain, realizing that familiar words were enough to retrieve what she had lost.

Cullen's other hand wandered over from the back of her neck, feeling the beginnings of her hair stream up towards the back of her head. He massaged the base of her skull thinking he had hurt her feelings with his honesty. The thick locks formed waves around him, and he trudged through the entanglement as he searched for that same scar. Yet, their world was not the dream world. They were wide-awake, and only a day passed since she suffered the blow. Reaching the spot, he felt something warm, raw, and a little damp from the remnants of blood pooling at the base of her skull, hidden by a bulwark of dark hair. She winced as her breathing shortened. The touch caused her pain, but she restrained herself so he could indulge.

"I would never let that happen again," he declared with an ominous tone. Cullen did not to need to clarify the meaning of his words. She knew what he meant, and she knew from whom he swore to protect her. It was such a sweet promise and tantalizing to the ear. Yet she had no need for such assurances. She fought and survived. What more could he offer her?

Unsure of what to say, if she could say it, she answered his promise the only way she knew how. A soft kiss with the fullness of her lips, felled softly and gently against his. She climbed onto his lap, straddling him in a full-body embrace. Just a soft kiss, a little gift from one elf to her shemlen. It was an act springing from memories lingering in her limbs.

But Cullen was taken aback. When her lips lingered a little too long and tasted so delicately like honeysuckle, he grabbed hold of her shoulders and pulled her away from him. Lúthien sat limp, her eyes agape and bewildered by his vehement rejection. Both were astonished by what the other had just done. Sitting in stunned silence, so close to each other, and breathing as if air slowly dissolved into nothingness, their faces paled, caught in an egregious act.

"Cullen!" she stammered out his name. Lúthien began to panic. Her chest heaved in desperation, wounded by the blow of him pushing her away. Her small frame shivered in his hands, shaking violently as if to break out into a sob.

He wanted to stop her, to tell her it was all right. He was merely caught off guard, so to speak. This young woman sitting on his lap, straddling him with the roundness of her thighs, and beckoning him with the harsh and forced breathing that made her chest rise and fall with the beat of his heart, caused such a self-embroiling stir. Is that what she wanted? For him to look at her like a body meant to satisfy his desire? Yet looking at her eyes, begging him to be kind to her, he felt the need to accept the offer that made him waver. All she offered was just a kiss, nothing more. She did not offer her body or her soul to him. Just a kiss, was he not allowed that simple pleasure? What he interpreted as her desire was actually his own voracity for her, to taste her, and to have her completely. It was a sin he would not indulge, but for now he would indulge _her_. Softening his gaze and easing his breathing, Cullen let go of her shoulders before wrapping her in his arms and returning the little gift he so callously rejected.

At first she was timid and locked in fear. Feeling his lips graze hers, after the reaction she received, sent shocks all too pleasurable and painful. It was strange, feeling just how dry his lower lip was, the coarseness of his scar brushing against her upper lip. Now it was _he_ who pulled her in, deeper into him against the hardness of his chest. Lúthien too was unable to resist for long. In mere seconds her arms wrapped around his neck as she parted her lips to let him taste more.

Cullen hadn't done _this_ in a while, exploring the wetness of another's mouth with his tongue, caressing what he could of her skin through his greedy fingers... He remembered when, months after his first wife's death (was there to be a second?), he took the first prostitute who presented herself to him in Denerim. It was a simple affair. The woman went on her fours on the bed, and he would fuck like an animal devoid of whatever affection he thought he should have. It was brief, rough, and precisely the distraction he needed. But now... what was now? He cradled this petite creature in his arms, swallowing her whole and devouring what life she had left in her luscious and plump lips, bruising her in his willingness to bite and to love. It took all of his strength for his hands to _not_ wander, to not climb the curve of her waist, and feel the roundness of her breasts hanging free and loose beneath her dress. _Maker..._ Cullen hadn't realized just how starved he actually was.

This woman was enjoying kissing him and permitting him to do more than he ought to. Or at least, she enjoyed tantalizing him with touches and glimpses of the forbidden. Cullen could feel his nimble elf pull away from him, her kisses getting shorter and pluckier. His hands fell on her back, rubbing through the fabric, and pushing her spine towards him.

A giggle rumbled out of her lips when she finally broke free of him, "Cullen..." How Lúthien said his name was enough to make him keel. Perhaps it was all they needed. Names. The elf shivered as chills lined on against her spine. A contented smile, one of gratitude and of unexpected bliss, was plastered on her face. She shifted her body so she was looking over him, her forehead above his as their noses touched. Cullen never noticed what a cute button nose she had.

Lúthien exhaled deeply and harshly against his jawbone. Closing her eyes, she resumed her good works by planting little showers of kisses – really, the soft nibbles of her lips – around his temple and over to the greying hair lining over the sides of his ears. He tried to reach up to her again, his mouth tracing what he could of the flesh he grazed against, but she would not let him. Her laughter rang in his ears, and it was so melodious to him.

Frustrated with how she so nimbly evaded his lips, Cullen gave up on her mouth and the taste of her tongue against his. Instead, he lowered his lips down to the curve of her neck. He nibbled on the sharp lines going down to her collarbone, licking and drinking in the sweet sweat that poured down from the thick of her hair. Lúthien arched back and let out a stifled moan, her lips shut tight and eyes closed as she drowned in the sensation. Her thighs rose and pulled him in closer, and her legs wrapped around like crawling vine clinging with every fiber of her being.

That Lúthien made those sweet sounds, moaning and groaning atop him, made Cullen feel heat rise from his gut. There, between his legs and underneath her, he became fully aroused. He felt a slight panic and wondered whether this was the beginning of the violation. He pulled her away once more by the shoulders. With one hand he tilted her chin towards him, trying to get her to look him in the eye. Her dark hair fell like an entangled mass over her face, and with one swift movement of his hand, he pushed the curls back behind her ears and caressed the cheek that glistened with her sweat.

"Lúthien?" he called out softly to her in a low and husky growl. Cullen wrapped his hands around her face and trailed down her neck, trying to get her to open those wistful eyes and look at him. The way she swayed in his arms and breathed like a woman finally touching the surface made him gasp in delight. "Maybe we should stop," he whispered close to her ear, half in the hopes they would and half – dare he admit it? – in the hopes she would urge him to go further.

A coy grin curved from her swollen lips. Slowly, she tilted her head from side to side. "No," came her answer. To drive the point further, Lúthien pulled up the skirt of her dress so the entirety of her lower half was wrapped around him. She rolled her hips, rubbing her bare naked center against his breeches. The mere tugging and pulling of their emotions loosened the laces on his waistline. She looked hungrily down at him, staring at the tightened bulge between his legs and the tautness of his abdomen from beneath the frayed hem of his torn tunic. _Andraste's cunt_... the woman was driving him mad. And everywhere around him smelled so sweet. Her hair, her skin, her sweat... Tempted by her succulent fruit, Cullen reached his hand between her legs. He felt her inner thighs, fingering through her nakedness. No smallclothes underneath, nothing to bar him entrance.

Lúthien gasped in surprise. His fingers impatiently pushed against the swollen and pink nub of her clit. Watching her enjoy his deft and experienced motions made Cullen smile in self-satisfaction. He wondered how a woman, who could play such an innocent creature – a woman whom he believed to be a virgin by all accounts – was so eager and perhaps more voracious than he. Her body rocked and swayed with the rhythm of his hand as her arms around his broad shoulders. Clutching, gripping, clinging onto him, her nails dug in the muscles of his back. She rolled her neck backward, bucking against his hand when he pushed through her clenched opening with his thumb. "Cullen!" she bit her lip in a vain attempt to mute her sounds. The cotton tunic veiling his hardened chest, smooth yet taunt from underneath the fabric, frustrated her to no end.

Cullen couldn't believe how soft she felt. Brushing against the velvety folds of her opening could only heighten his arousal. She heard her erupt in a mixture of giggling and moaning. Encouraged with each sound she made, he thrust his fingers deeper into her, making her recoil backward and jump with its force. Some quivering impulse suddenly made him lick his lips in anticipation of what was to come next. Cullen wanted more than anything to lay her flat on her back, to part her supple legs, and kiss the inside of her thighs damp from the heat of her arousal. He wanted to taste the little nub in her center, to suckle on it like a ripe plum. He wanted to. He _had_ to...

A loud and thunderous knock banged against the wood of the door to their room. The couple froze in unsettled stillness as they were pulled away from enraptured desire. Cullen faced away from Lúthien and took a glimpse over his shoulder to the door. "Yes?" he yelled out as he held the elf in his arms, unwilling to let her go just yet.

"Pardonnez-moi, Messere," the innkeeper's voice sounded hollow behind the door. "The third guest has returned. He asks for you at the way station." Cullen breathed easily when he realized the intruder was not going to open the door.

Lúthien sighed and slowly rose from his lap. Her legs wobbled slightly as she stood on the floor, realizing how cramped they were in the awkward position of straddling Cullen and locking him in between her thighs. A smile broke from her lips as she gathered herself and straightened the skirt of her dress. Her thick mass of black curls were even more tangled and disheveled, running down to one side of her neck. "Thank you," she mumbled with a sheepish grin.

Cullen grunted back to her as he struggled to rise from the bed. He focused on retightening the laces on his breeches and calming the heat between his thighs. Locks of his blonde hair streaked with even more flagrant silver fell down over to his eyes. From head to toe he felt drenched in heavy perspiration. "Dorian's back," he announced curtly. He pressed down the creases of his tunic and realigned it neatly. At its hem, there was still the fraying tear by his waistline. Unfortunately, this was the neatest he was going to look.

Of course Lúthien knew this. She understood the simple words that innkeeper said, but Cullen acted in haste as if he had to absolutely be rid of her presence. She locked her fingers together in nervousness. Her brows furrowed wondering if she had done something wrong, and why he was so eager to rush out of what she thought was a close and intimate moment for them.

It didn't take too long for the shemlen to sense her disappointment and discomfiture. He stopped a second and inhaled deeply before turning to her again. "I'll be back," he said in blurting out the first thing to come to his mind. Was that the best he could do? Rouge tinted his cheeks, and again he wanted to crawl back into the fiery caverns of a deep and abysmal pit. He noticed how she pouted and how aware _she_ was of the stupidity of his words. Hurrying to make amends, he rushed to her side and stared down at her from the heights of eyes. Cullen took her cheek into his hand, cupping it in the hopes of conveying _his_ gratitude in their shared moment. He then planted a firm yet chaste kiss on her forehead. "We'll continue this," he whispered as he hovered close to her ear. A tight knot swelled in his chest, and he wondered if he even had the courage to initiate another tête-à-tête with the lustful nymph.

Lúthien beamed in excited glee. She watched in anticipation as he paced back across the room, out the door, and into the empty corridor. By the time the door shut close behind him, she let out a breath and tried to take in the room's sudden emptiness. Something nagged at her from the back of her mind. She wrapped her hands around her arms for warmth as she shuddered. It didn't feel cold. Quite the opposite. She was sweltering and suffocating from an unbearable stuffiness in the room. Lúthien walked back to the window in hopes of catching a glimpse of him walking to the other building, but in it she could only catch sight of her reflection. Funny, she felt so _different_. The oval curve of her cheeks, the roundness of her eyes... She looked so different, alien and strange to what she remembered.


	8. Chapter 8

**Trigger warning** : This is a _naughty_ chapter. If you guys don't like exhibitionist doggy style, then I suggest you skip the last section of this chapter. I do not mean to offend, if I do. There is purpose (however far away it seems) for every word and detail, and I hope it is still enjoyable.

 **Note on the lack of Elven** : I found it hard to puzzle through the available online lexicons for elven in Dragon Age to craft more complicated sentences, so I just wrote it in English but with the narrator explicitly saying that she had been speaking elven anyway.

* * *

 _You know, she's half your age_. Dorian's words made each breath Cullen had to take heavy and full of dread. The words distracted him from the two gnawing pains he suffered sitting across from both an alive and bristling Pierre and his sullen but no doubt disquieted friend Dorian. Cullen had just gotten over the shock of _actually_ meeting Pierre, of seeing him for the very first time. Across from him sat a very young man, almost too boyish to peg as an elf-hating would-be rapist. He never knew that the mask could conceal such piercing blue eyes. The color of ice stared at him from between a crooked bridge of an aquiline nose. Pierre had rich hazelnut-colored curls with a sheen that gave him a boyish look. _Boyish_ , yes. Cullen noticed that most of all. Pierre was young, brazen, and carried himself about like a darling Casanova. Yet none of the charm he exuded could wash away the rancor foaming at the Ferelden's mouth.

Around them the way station was bustling with resting wanderers, eager to finish their mandatory interview and inspection with the constable. Slumped over a shadowy corner, the three men conducted their gauntlet.

"I do not blame you for leaving," Pierre said in light and spritely tones, but every word and every inflection screamed that he felt quite the opposite. In fact, he blamed them all utterly for it, and the smile meant nothing more than a courteous warning for foretold vengeance.

"As I explained Pierre..." Dorian cut in. He placed a friendly hand on the Orlesian's shoulder. Cullen, however, was bewildered by the mage's efforts. Was _he_ not repulsed?

"Yes, yes I know!" Pierre's smirk was all too knowing. "The rabbit was hurt!" Pierre laid an impassioned frown on his face, slowing the rhythm of his speech quite dramatically. "You should've seen it, _commander_." The way he paused at Cullen's former title and the freedom he took in casually slurring Lúthien sent his hairs on edge.

"I should've seen what?" Cullen's reaction was throaty and aggressive, but the gleam in Pierre's eye could only mean he obliviously took the bait in anger.

"Why! A great bear!" Pierre's eyes were agape, and his hands traced large circles in the air as if he was to reproduce the bear's image for them. He smiled at his own theatrical gestures, and his boisterousness soon attracted the attention of fellow way station dwellers. "I tried to help her fetch water you see, but a great bear ambushed us!"

Cullen could see Dorian swallow hard, realizing that neither of them really bought Pierre's hysterics. Yet the mage shot him a pleading glance. He was asking him, no doubt, to play along. The curve of the Tevene's mustache jerked, and Cullen himself felt the ends of his hair stand in the massive restraint he practiced for his friend.

"Interesting," was the only comment that Cullen could muster. His brows were narrowed quite suspiciously, and he averted eye contact at all costs. What would he do now? Caught between a rock and a hard place, he had all the reason to pounce at the lying bastard, to wring his neck, and to make sure they never sat in the same room again. It took his all to _not_ do those things when he first learned Pierre indeed survived from his Tevinter friend. Yet, if Cullen's position was awkward, Dorian's was worse. Just moments before, the mage explained _everything_ to him – everything that he himself had just discovered.

Cullen thought to the moments when, before entering the building of the way station, Dorian grabbed him by the shoulder and said in a hushed and hurried tone, " _Pierre is a spy sent by Duke de Montfort_." The details of why and how the mage knew this were sure to come.

No wonder. Cullen always figured the Orlesian was a little too "refined" to have been a mere hunter in those lost parts of the Wilds. Everything had been pre-arranged after all. Orlesian nobles knew they could not harm the Tevinter diplomat, and that he was key in finding one of the highest-ranking members of the Inquisition. He was key in finding out the murderers and conspirators against the late Empress, and Cullen was suspected to be one. But why not put out a bounty? Why not call for a widespread arrest? Clearly, the use of a spy indicated one of the more extrajudicial kinds of a manhunt. The thought that Cullen was once more embroiled in multiple plots (after all, he was still very unsure as to what Lúthien's own plans were) invited into his head a throbbing migraine. For the past few days, he had been able to quell symptoms of his lingering addiction with avoidance – a feat he attributed somewhat to the elf's enigmatic presence. Now, without her, and caught in this spider's web of the Game, his dried mouth yearned for the cool and familiar taste of lyrium. He could almost hear a song ringing in his ears.

"Did the rabbit not say as much?" Pierre's question pierced through Cullen's cloudy introspection. His use of a slur brought him back to just moments prior when, looking out from the safety of a small window, Lúthien whispered the same word in somber reflection. Thinking of her brought him momentary relief. The sight of her breathing against him, hovering so close to his lips, and the look of her face when touched precisely where she wanted to be touched... Cullen felt something build up in his throat when those images were seized by another, fictitious yet abhorrent scene. He thought of Pierre alone with Lúthien in the depths of the forest, pinning her down, wedged between her legs...

"It would be better if you stop calling her that," Dorian interceded, much to the Ferelden warrior's surprise. Pierre only stared back at him cockeyed. "Anyway," the mage continued hoping to ease much of their interrogations. "Forgive us, Pierre." The mage's brow twitched with every concession he had to make for the sake of pretense and survival. Although Tevinter's own version of the game always proved more lethal and scandalous, he hardly had the taste and energy for it. "Lúthien did not say anything."

Cullen jerked from his seat upon hearing Dorian's "excuse." Why could neither of them bring it up? What did the mage expect would happen? Whatever the consequences and outcomes were of the decisions they all made, he could not feign camaraderie or trust. They had to part ways right at the way station. Even without the baggage of his new, bubbling feelings for the elf, Cullen – unworthy as he himself thought he was – did not want to be associated with one who arrogantly flaunted his crimes.

"Ah! If only she had spoken the truth," Pierre eyed Cullen in menaced pleasure. The younger and incognito tracker knew, somehow, how uncomfortable and angry he was making him. The irony of his words was not lost on the older man, whose teeth grinded in disgust.

Dorian watched these tense moments of silent exchanges with a nervous grin. He wanted, oh so badly, to incinerate the ingratiating Orlesian with a fireball for the blatant lies and manipulation – using Lúthien's fledgling ability with the Common Tongue to his advantage. But Pierre could undo them. He could reveal to all in the way station that the Tevinter Magister, a background still hated most of all by Orlesians, traveled with the suspected ex-commander of the Inquisition _and_ an Elven rogue from the Wilds. Still, there was something personal about their little gauntlet that eluded Dorian's discernment. He also found it peculiar that one woman had managed to make the most unlikely of men rivals. Cullen did not care for the affairs of others in his time mourning the death of Lavellan. Pierre had waxed poetic about his dreams of joining the Inquisition in his boyhood. Now, with Lúthien sitting pretty in their sights, they snarled like competing wolves.

"Well," continued Pierre. He carried the demeanor of one about to make the finishing move in a game of chess. "C'est la vie, as we Orlesians always say. I do not blame any of you for the grave mistake." Every word and every inflection hung in the air, saturated in double meaning.

Dorian put his hands together on the table. His gesture implied a shift in atmosphere, wanting to cut through whatever bullshit was in their system. "Pierre, thank you for your understanding." The seriousness of the mage did not at all detract from the alluring charm he often evoked when beholding an audience. Cullen was surprised at how the simple sentence flowed mellifluously from his friend. Five years in the service of diplomacy and politics certainly changed Dorian. The mage leaned in closer to the center once he noticed he had both men's attention. In a low voice, he continued, "But I want to know the part you are to play now."

Pierre nodded knowingly and showed off the elegant smile a practiced courtier could muster. "Messere, I told you the truth of my work when you found me, because, as you see, my mask is broken. My identity is compromised, and it seems _your_ work takes you farther than what my master originally thought."

Cullen had not the patience for these innuendos and cunning. He stamped a fist on the table as if to cease the flow of slippery words and end the interview. "Out with it," he commanded. The width of his shoulders assumed their squared stance, and he appeared like a general seated in his office awaiting a candid and concise report. The migraine worsened, and despite the confusing lull of their verbiage, Cullen could have sworn he was hearing _things_. A deafening ring, a silent song. It was so familiar, and all he could think about was going back to the inn, to look for her, the lyrium... one or both.

Pierre chortled effusively as if it all remained a game to him. No lives, no hurt, but play. He turned in his seat on the bench to look Cullen in the eye. "His excellence, Duke de Montfort, tasked me with procuring information about the commander's whereabouts and to leave." His summary was so matter of fact, as if the disclosure meant nothing to him or for him. "Yet, I saw strange things in the Wilds," he peered over to Dorian, "That demon we fought, that _she_ killed was not the first to be spotted. Trappers and traders in the Graves have seen them..."

"And?" Cullen's impatience betrayed his own indifference to Pierre's truth.

"And I just met one of the only elves left in Orlais that we know of." Pierre's matter-of-fact tone detracted from his earlier boorishness. A scowl lined his lips as he knotted his fingers together in calm explanation. A moment later, he turned to Dorian, "I _know_ of your missive. You are to bring the Commander to her most holy and the new lord seeker."

Cullen's eyes flared up at the mage. All this time, he assumed Dorian was merely keeping his promise to Lavellan: _watch over him_ , _protect him_. It was what the Magister had done in the five years since. Now, he too had his own plot to unfold. What was Cullen to any of them? A pawn, perhaps. A meaningless, lifeless pawn to be toyed with in their intrigue and machinations. _Maker's breath_... he wanted to punch them both.

"I believe my master would reward me very well if I was party to this summons," Pierre added hastily, noting the impatience from both of his foreign companions. "Let me accompany you to Val Royeux and..."

Cullen rose from his seat and slammed both palms flat on the table. "Enough." He looked over to Dorian with stony eyes. "We are leaving." With his curt words, he left the bench table and began to walk out of the way station.

Dorian too rose from his seat but in a hurried attempt to salvage what change they had left. "Cullen, wait-..." The two left Pierre sitting with a sly smile in the far corner of the room. The mage trailed after the briskly paced warrior, who slammed open the entrance doors of the way station before turning with clenched jaws to his old friend.

"What?" The menacing glare from Cullen was enough to send a pack of wolves away, but the mage knew better. He has seen worse.

Dorian let out a sigh and ran a frustrated hand over his coiffed hair. "He will tell everyone."

"Then let him. We are leaving."

Cullen shrugged off Dorian's outreached hand and proceeded to the gravel path leading to the inn.

"Who do you mean by _we_ , Cullen?" Dorian stood firm, both feet rooted to the dirt beneath them. Even his own fists were clenched perhaps in the same bottled up anger the warrior himself felt. "You barely know the girl, and already you're throwing so much away..."

"What am I throwing away?!" Cullen growled back, almost roaring into the night. "How am I to know what I am supposed to do? None of you ever tell me anything." The older man threw his hands up in the air in disbelief before slapping them back on his sides. "None of you were ever _there_. None of you ever bothered to ask _me_ what I have been doing, making your assumptions, thinking you're all good friends by watching from the sidelines!" The harangue was incisive, enough to silence whatever biting words Dorian had in store. That was the thing about close friends. They knew where it hurt the most. Seeing how effective he was, Cullen clicked his tongue and smiled incredulously. "Nothing clever to say?"

Dorian took a deep breath before responding. He had to exorcise whatever anger or irritation he felt. More hung in the balance now. "I am sorry, friend. I truly am." The mage walked ahead of Cullen towards the inn, but paused a few feet from the door. With his back facing the warrior, he looked regretfully at the sky, its hue a rose-colored dome. Clouds streaked its fringes as the sun began to sink in the horizon. _How quickly time goes_. Bitterness engulfed his tongue, and from then Dorian had no choice but to admit something he held back for so long. "We all had our time. We all had our resources, but none of us know where Solas is. But now..." Dorian struggled to find the words. His eyes searched for the stars beginning to peer over the darkening sky. Over ahead, a small circular window lit up in the upper floor of the inn. A shadow, the silhouette of a woman, appeared against the bright yellow light of a lamp. "Together we can find him," he added at last. "She can help too."

Cullen saw where Dorian's gaze led. He too glimpsed the silhouette watching over them from above. "Are you telling me, that it is worth letting Pierre tag along? That our cause is worth trampling over another elf?"

Dorian said nothing in response. He had his doubts about the actual events that took place. The one other person who knew the truth – the muted and enigmatic Lúthien – spoke no words in vindication or refutation. He did not want to doubt, and deep down, he really did not doubt, that Pierre tried something on Lúthien. Yet the truth of it all was always so far back, so concealed, that no decision could be made. Whatever consequences there were, he had to bear them blissfully unaware of how it had touched another's life. "Perhaps," he finally answered. In the end, the logic of the greater good still prevailed for him.

Cullen scoffed. Dorian remained frozen in his spot, unwilling to face the new friend he might have hurt in this difficult decision. Without further word, Cullen walked past the mage without looking at him or acknowledging him. As his hand fell on the door's latch, he stopped for a moment and mulled over a decision broiling inside him since seeing Pierre. "Lúthien and I are leaving before sunrise. _She_ will help me find Solas. You can come, but if you bring Pierre, consider our friendship and whatever promise you made Lavellan... over."

The door opened and let out a golden flash of light into the darkness of the setting scene. Inside the inn, a loud bustle of patrons singing drunkenly intoned out into the wilderness. Before Dorian could reply, Cullen proceeded inside, and the door slammed loudly shut behind him.

* * *

Lúthien saw the two men in front of the inn just moments before. When she noticed the monotone blue fade to a greyish rose as the sun waned to its muted brightness, she lit the lamp by the bed hoping to stave off whatever darkness crept in their humble room. She stood before the window wrapped in nothing but a ragged linen towel the innkeeper left by the basin earlier. The water in the "bath," if it could be called that, stood lifeless and cold. Whatever Dorian had to discuss with Cullen dragged on a little too long, and, instead of hazarding a visit outside and exposing her ears, she yearned to bathe in her calming privacy. If they come in, they come in. If not, she could relish her sanctuary just a moment longer.

In the Wilds, she always had a limpid pond to dip her toes in. The trees provided the walls, and the quiet evenings gave melodious humming into her ears. Now, in this shanty shemlen village, she was left with an embarrassing basin for a bath, and the wooden walls creaked with the sounds of strangers coming and going in the inn. Still, she knew she had no choice and settled for what was there before her.

The elf bit her lip when, memories reclaimed her again, and she remembered the luxury afforded her in the times of Elvhenan. Springs always bubbled with warmth, urns made of marble floated from fountains enchanted with sprites and wisps, and the fragrance of flowers long ago lost to the veil always hovered their noses when they indulged in evening swims. A longing sigh fled her quivering lips as she dipped her leg in the basin before relinquishing her towel to the floor.

Slowly, she submerged her entire body and crouched inside the cold metal. Her arms pressed her knees against her chest as she let the water rise to her shoulders. Around her, a wave of black engulfed her frame. Her curls straightened into thick strands pooling around her caramel skin. They floated in the musky water, rinsing off what dirt and oils clung to her in a day's travel. Lost in the quiet stillness of the moment, she let out a dreamy sigh and tried to let go of her worries.

The air around her concerned her. The smell, the weight... everything was too heavy, as if the Veil itself was stronger in shemlen parts. The Wilds awakened in her blood the power of magic and of enchantment. She could walk the Fade still in her arboreal fortress and in the darkness of its shadowy groves. Here, in the way station, she felt ostensibly weaker and lightheaded. The whispers that whirred in her ears when she traversed the winding paths of the temple ruins now hushed into nothingness. Even the hum of Cullen's phial of lyrium turned mute. Her eyes glanced at her bow, hoisted against the corner of the room next to her canvas sack and quiver of arrows. The thought of combat reminded her of Pierre, and the real reason for Dorian's return. Through her whole life, Lúthien was marked for her calm and discerning patience. It was what made her a great hunter in the olden days, but now she felt slightly trapped, hunter-turned-prey. Would they loose him upon her once more? Like lamb caught in the jowls of the wolf? A shudder ran through her, and she hugged her knees tighter.

 _I would never let that happen again_.

Would, not will. She noticed the differences in words when the shems spoke of action. Would, because the situation would not even arise. For Cullen, it was a matter of preventing and not stopping. Lúthien blushed at his sudden overprotectiveness. Though she knew he still suspected her somewhat as an alien and strange being, it was obvious that he was beginning to see something entirely different within her. Hope? A warm body to hold? She knew of the nightmares he had and the memories that stalked his every waking moment. She was a stranger and a friend all at once. Perhaps that was more of a comfort than either of them realized.

And what was he to her? Lúthien herself had not worked that out. All she knew was that every moment she spent by his side, she felt an insatiable longing. When he first touched her, and really _touched_ her, she felt her blood come alive, shaking itself from a deep and forgotten sleep. Lovemaking had been a candid excursion for the Elvhen. It was not as procedural or tacked with overburdened meaning in the same way Cullen approached it. Heat rose from her thighs just at the thought. In the seclusion of her room, the coolness of her bath, she again felt the stifling warmth of earlier. Lúthien closed her eyes as her lids felt heavy with fatigue. Slowly her hands rolled down her knees from underneath the water. The basin seemed to engulf her, and the water carried her away in waves of the memory.

As her fingers trailed down, her knees gave apart to invite her wandering hands. She thought of Cullen's own wandering and the heaviness of his breathing. His silence was so strained when she let him feel the dampness of her skin, and the sight of how much control he tried so hard to maintain riveted her. Her lithe fingers reached the warm core of her body. She reached down to her small and hot nub, swollen and ripe for the plucking. Her heart fluttered at the memory, groaning from the pleasure it elicited. Funny, she never thought of touching herself before. It took a thousand years and a strange shemlen for her to discover what pleasures were hidden in her body.

Lúthien placed more pressure on her two fingers as she slid up and down the smallness of her clit. She tried, so desperately, to emulate his motions and relive once more the heat of their moment together. Her legs parted wider, feeling cramped against the confines of the small basin. A tremor rumbled from her lips when she felt her hips clench in excitement. All the while, the thought of Cullen, alone with her in that familiar grove, burying his lips in the depths of her thighs made her moan.

The click of the door latched sounded through the room. It was the second interruption of the day. Not without a disappointed grimace, Lúthien quickly ceased her motions, and locked her legs together. She crouched lower into the basin so that her ears were under its rims. Peering over the edge, she watched as the door swung open and let in the brighter light of the outer corridor.

"Lúthien?" Cullen appeared in the doorway. He seemed a little more haggard than when he left, with skin pale as snow, hair tousled more than ever, and his shoulders slumped under the weight of the day.

The elf jumped in excitement upon his long awaited return. She nestled close to the edge of the basin. "Cullen!" she shouted quite unexpectedly. Leaning forward, her bare shoulders glistened with beads of bathwater against the yellow lamplight. The mass of curls usually draped around her head now fell like a thin, obsidian veil behind her neck. The thought of a bath with Cullen so soon after she started pleasuring herself made her giggle in impish glee.

Cullen's pale complexion immediately reddened, and his eyes narrowed at a sight he should but could not turn away from. At first he tried to focus his eyes on her delighted grin, but even then, his mind immediately wandered to indelicate thoughts. To think that behind the basin, just behind that thin sheet of metal enclosed around her, she... "I! Um! Uh..." he half turned away and focused on the ground. "I'm sorry!" His anger and exhaustion from the previous meeting disappeared in an instant, replaced by the mortification of having forgotten to knock. Flustered, Cullen instinctively backed into the corridor outside and reached for the latch.

"Melena!" Lúthien shouted to stop him from leaving, asking him to wait. She stood on her knees in the basin, thereby revealing more of herself – collarbone, the curves of her chest. Cullen immediately raised his forearm in front of his eyes, a gesture that strategically hid her bosom. _Blasted woman_... he needed to explain to her that certain... customs... dictated behavior between men and women. It was hardly appropriate, no matter how impassioned they were before, to stand naked in front of him.

The elf pursed her lips at the way Cullen was backing away. She didn't know why he was acting so strange. Yesterday, when she took a bath in a pond close to the outskirts of the Wild, neither Cullen nor Dorian found the prospect amusing. Both were somewhat repulsed, perhaps Cullen a little more than his friend. Still, the redness engulfing his face endeared him to her. Lúthien delighted in the quirks the otherwise stoic and stony man betrayed in more vulnerable moments.

"I can come back," he stuttered like a schoolboy caught with his breeches undone. Lessons of modesty seized him with utter shame and fear that he somehow violated or intruded upon something sacrosanct. "I'll knock too."

"No! Stay!" Her imploration was earnest with her hand almost reaching out to him. Lúthien quickly got up from her feet. Water flowed down from the ends of her limbs and came crashing back down in the basin. Her fingers snatched the linen towel draped on the floor, quickly wrapping herself with it to ease the eyes of the poor and frightened warrior.

Cullen unwittingly glanced around behind him before stepping back in the room and promptly shutting the door. Knowing that both Dorian _and_ Pierre were in the vicinity made his heart stop. Though he could care less about the Orlesian boor, he still did not want to risk him coming up and opening old wounds with his victim. As for Dorian, well, shit, He would just never hear the end of it. Cullen quickly half turned to push the latch onto a groove, locking the metal in place. He breathed out a sigh of relief before facing the elven minx once more.

Once the door was closed, Lúthien rushed to his side and left a trail of bathwater in her wake. She flitted across the room and pounced him from excitement. Her slender arms wrapped around his neck and her still soaking legs curved over his hips. She pressed close to his face but stopped short mere inches from his nose. The towel concealing her naked form now hung loose and scrunched up between them, slowly sliding down to reveal more of her. Cullen, who was still discombobulated from the rapid-fire sequence of events, felt breath leave his lungs.

"What are you..." she cut him off with a voracious kiss, slipping her tongue past his parted lips. With it, all resistances on Cullen's part evanesced. For a moment, he forgot what he went up there to tell her, what he wanted to do in preparation for... whatever it was. Instead he acted on the aching needs of the present. His hand slid down her side gripped her by her hips while the other supported the small of her plump arse. She almost slipped from his grasp with how soaking wet her body was, but he immediately caught her before reinforcing his hold and pressing her closer. Whatever possessed him to melt right away at her touch did not plague him for long. After all, he promised he'd continue _this_.

Cullen indulged her for few precious seconds more before parting from her lips and breathing in her flesh. A coy smile crept up his lips with the realization that, even after a bath, she smelled sweetly and dangerously of honeysuckle. With the time that passed, he still could not believe that he literally held a woman who, against all notions and wisdom of experience, intrepidly sought out what she wanted without fail. It was enticing, to say the least. "You should get dressed," his tone hovered with a slight tinge of regret at the suggestion. "Dorian is back, and-..." he struggled to find the right way to say things. "When you're dressed, we can talk." Cullen slowly lowered her back down to the floor, waiting for her legs to unwrap themselves and for her feet to touch the floor before he let go of her.

"Ahn daral del?" she asked with mouth pursed in concern. Her black eyes, formerly lost in a lustful trance, now focused intently on him.

Their lessons have at least taught Cullen what she asked. "Nothing," he answered tersely. "It would be difficult to talk the way you are, now." Laughter rolled out from his throat as he pointed out her distracting nakedness. "Besides, Dorian will come up soon. That is, I hope he does."

Once she was on her two feet, Lúthien let the towel plop to the wood once more. She walked unabashedly back to the bed and reached for the chiton she proudly wore last he was in the room. Cullen lost no time in turning around and nervously running a hand down his neck. He had never done it _this_ way before. Decorum and common knowledge required that he get to know her first. Court her, woo her, or whatever the euphemism was for the otherwise arduous task of thrashing down every protective barrier one sets up against strangers. The other extreme was to drain the relationship of any and all sentiment. These were the ill-advised flings on drunken nights or the once-a-moon visits to brothels that he glossed over for five years. He much preferred the former in all honesty. Falling in love with Lavellan was natural like that. Slow, unsuspecting, yet once love holds in its obviousness pervades all of life. Cullen had no idea how to handle Lúthien, who blurred the boundaries between amorous affection and carnal excitement so readily and quickly.

From behind him he could hear Lúthien deal with the clash of silk pour down her shoulders. He heard laces weaving in and out of special accouterments and the clicking noises her tongue makes when she is unable to fasten the lace firmly. As he waited, he brushed his hair back with his fingers to tame its unruly curls. Cullen recalled how nice it felt when, during his time as commander, he had a steady supply of styling lard to discipline the uncouth mess of his curls. Lately, he rather liked the scruffy look of an incipient beard and unbrushed hair. More accurately, he liked the laziness and unabashed embrace of it. It was not really until his _encounter_ with Lúthien did he long for more civility with his look.

Unable to _not_ thinkof her, Cullen peered over his shoulder to watch the elf dress herself. She was mostly done. Her back faced him, showing a long line where water lined the fabric from the soaking dampness of her massive hair. She wrapped the black locks with a twist of her linen towel, frisking and patting it dry, but curls managed to jut out from its edges, leaving beads and droplets of water to pitter patter down the train of her skirt. Lavellan too had curls, but her hair was a little tamer and had the color of chestnut, really. Though Lúthien kept her back turned, he thought of the most striking yet uncanny resemblance between the two. Both women had small eyes the shape of almonds. It gave each of them a hint of the exotic, as if in some distant land far beyond the reaches of Thedas, beautiful Elven women dwelled. The idea of such a chimerical paradise made Cullen chuckle, earning a curious side eye from Lúthien across the room.

"Good?" she asked as she fastened the last bit of lace over her billowy sleeve. Lúthien turned to face him. Her rosy cheeks almost melted away against the tawny hue of her skin, and her hair frizzed from its previously soaking state. An unmanageable ball of curls wrapped her head and ears in utter disarray. Somehow Lúthien managed to exude utter happiness, the type of bliss available to those undaunted youth ready to face the world. Seeing her enthusiasm almost wrung his chest. It was only past sunset, and already he felt sleep take over his limbs. The weariness of a worn-out body, beaten and thrown about by the ravages of time, was not something he felt proud to offer her.

"Good," Cullen answered. "I was just thinking of ... nothing." How could he even explain that mysterious compendium of thoughts? It was hardly proper to let her know he was _just_ drawing a comparison with his wife. Maker's breath...

Loud knocking came through the door followed by a sheepish, "It's me." _Dorian_. Cullen inhaled anxiously. He wondered if the mage came readily with an answer to his ultimatum. The warrior bit his lip thinking of the threats he roared outside the inn. Deep down, Cullen knew he could never, _ever_ , sever ties or friendship with Dorian. He really was like a brother at this point, joined at the hip, and forever responsible for each other. When Cullen and Lavellan first found out the news of her pregnancy, she immediately reached out to him through their magical little trinket. That single moment showed to him the strength of their friendship. He wondered at the possibility that he too might have been embroiled in such a bond.

A second knock came. Seeing Cullen unmoved with his back still facing the door, Lúthien wasted no time answering the door for him. She hurriedly lifted the latch before gently opening the door. Dorian stood with a tired face. He mustered a smile upon seeing Lúthien, "Hello my friend."

She smiled back, "Lethallin."

They stood for a moment by the doorway, as Dorian was somewhat puzzled and pleasantly surprised upon first glance. The mage appreciated the distraction more than anything. After a long day of trekking back into the woods with no rest, of dangerously treading the tenuous line of the Orlesian Game with Pierre, and enduring a bitter disagreement with his old friend, he would prefer the trivialities of appreciating a dress. "Lovely," he says in that charming, magnetic voice. "You know Lúthien," taking her hand in his arm as he walked her to the center of the room, closer to Cullen, "I am so relieved I did not bring the Iron Bull with me on this trip. He would find you absolutely ravishing!"

The allusion provoked a startled laugh from Cullen, who found the prospect quite amusing. He pictured it already, the Iron Bull teasing Dorian by feigning lurid interest in a much younger and beautiful woman. It _would_ make the mage positively jealous, despite the fact that there was no questioning Bull's loyalty. Lúthien merely shrugged at whatever he was suggesting, blissfully unaware of whomever they spoke of.

"Don't you agree, Cullen?" The way Dorian interpolated his friend into the conversation was so casual and effortless. The mage continued to hold both Lúthien's eyes and swung them about in childish excitement.

Cullen turned to face them. He managed a polite grin before countering, "But I have already showered her with compliments."

Dorian was quick to notice his yearning glance but said nothing of it. All things considered, he cared little for the affairs of others. It would be hypocritical of him to sincerely and intentionally pry, casual teasing aside. For the moment, more imperative and impending decisions had to be made. The distraction could only be temporary, after all. His expression quickly shifted, like changing one's mask. The worried mage cast a cursory glance before letting go of the elf. He took a moment to sigh before resuming un-pleasantries. "We need to go to Val Royeux." A long sigh before the slouching of shoulders filled the silence that followed. "I know what you're thinking," Dorian interjected, preemptively countering whatever arguments his friend would have made.

Lúthien assumed an expressionless mask, never revealing to either if she understood or not. Probably not. Whatever decision they were making, she would follow Cullen. That much was known. She knotted her fingers over her belly and scrunched them nervously. Her glance fell once more upon the window that overlooked the darkening horizon. Just below the dark blue veil of the evening sky, the blacker expanse of mountainous trees beckoned to her.

"What am I thinking?" Cullen sat on the straw bed as he was at a loss for words.

"We have more of a chance now! How long have you wandered? Taken mercenary jobs and feeding yourself lyrium while not a clue even passes you by!" The mage was adamant. "Cassandra wanted me to find you, because she knew, or thought, you of all people would know where to start." Everyone could feel Dorian's heart beat at a lightning pace. Hours of cajoling and fawning have now given way to assertive truth. He would not lose his friend to some subconscious fear of failure or disappointment. "I have a better idea now." The stern confidence of his words found their object in Lúthien, who heard and listened patiently and without question. "We have an Elvhen, just like Solas, with us!"

Cullen's hand curled into a fist on the mattress, literally grasping at the straws that grazed against his callused skin. "And what do you propose we do?" The exasperated and haggard vagabond disappeared and there sat a familiar and unrelenting strength. The former commander revealed himself by the glow of the dim lamplight, mouth impassively clenched, and eyes nonplussed.

"Same as you," Dorian answered curtly. "We teach her to speak to us. We bring her to Val Royeux, or wherever, and organize a force large enough to respond to the attacks." Cullen rolled his eyes, but the mage was undaunted. "I _know_ you can feel it, Cullen." Lúthien's eyes closed in trying to drown out the words that circled around her. Without really understanding them word for word, she knew whom Dorian was talking about, and this familiar way of talking over her brought back more pained memories. "She has magic in her! I can feel it in my blood when she's around."

"She's not a mage," Cullen motioned to rise in utter rejection of Dorian's proposal.

"She isn't, but I know you can tell there's something odd about her." Dorian faced Cullen and braced his shoulder to bar him leave. "How long has it been since you last took lyrium?" The question emerged from nowhere and made Cullen uncomfortable. "I'm not a fool. Almost a week traveling with you, and the only time you showed symptoms of withdrawal was..." He struggled to bring up Pierre in front of Lúthien. Dorian caught himself from stumbling over, earning a hasty and questioning look from the elf. The other man too shot a pleading look so as to change the subject. The words need not be exchanged at that moment. "Even without magic," Dorian resumed, "she has the knowledge. Eluvians, temples, and other ancient ruins of cities lost to us."

Lúthien breathed out, slowly opening her eyes, and inserted herself between Dorian and Cullen. "Pierre?" Without skipping a beat, she went after the elephant in the room. True to her prowess as a huntress, her arrow shot with lethal accuracy. _Where is he_? Her narrowed eyes, deep black and penetrating, probed in Dorian's mind. The magic he himself just spoke of, dormant yet palpable in the air they breathed, worked a little of its wonders. The mage was taken aback, and so too was Cullen similarly astonished.

Knowing that in her discernment, there was no use equivocating the main reason for the conversation, Dorian swallowed the ball wedged in his throat. "He is at the way station for the moment." The simple and short answer proved enough for Lúthien, who merely shrugged at the information and returned to her calm aloofness.

Cullen marched up to the mage and shot a menacing glare. His nostrils flared, angry that it had come to precisely what he warned him about. "We don't need him," he insisted. For an instant, both Dorian and Lúthien thought his stature grew and his shoulders much more broadened.

Dorian glowered at the other man's indifference to careful planning. "He will sell us out, tell the whole world we're traveling with an elf, and..."

"So we travel light, swift, and unseen." The seriousness of Cullen's tone almost made the suggestion seem easy and the best, but the mage merely scoffed, utterly bemused by his enforcement of unrealistic simplicity.

Seeing that his stubborn friend would not see reason, Dorian instead turned to Lúthien. He took his chances, especially when the crux of problem lay at her feet. It was the crime done against her, after all. Cullen only persisted out of concerns for her safety – a concern Dorian himself shared, but in times of political crisis, one had to sacrifice the individual did he not? They've made more precarious calls during the Inquisition. Dorian's temple throbbed in frustration. No, it was not _truly_ an ethical dilemma. Deep down, it was Cullen's sense of rivalry that clouded his judgment. "My dear, help our friend see reason. If we do not work with Pierre, all of us will be in a much more dangerous position. All of Thedas will know to hunt us down, especially you."

The elf looked at him somewhat dismayed. She had known of this shemlen paranoia against the arcane and the elves. She dreamt of it often enough, but hunting down? Had elves sunk so low they were considered vermin to be eradicated? Lúthien bit her lower lip, but her eyes remained glued and absorbing on Dorian. The hesitation in her gestures made both men nervous, Cullen most of all. She saw him shift where he stood, with his eyes narrowed in bitter worry.

"This isn't fair, Dorian," Cullen did not wait for her response. "You can't put it on her like this. She has no idea what's at stake."

"So you'd have her run in the shadows like a frightened mouse?!" Dorian barked back his counterargument. It startled Cullen, who was unused to the malice in his voice.

This was not the first disagreement Dorian had with Cullen. Strangely enough, it was the commander and not he who always made tough calls. He was prepared to sacrifice some soldiers for the larger goal of wiping out Red Templars; he was prepared to bury everyone in Haven just to stop Corypheus, but now, after years of solitude and having found something (or someone) he wanted to hold on to, he chose that exact moment to have an unbridled conscience. Truth be told, if Dorian felt Pierre was a real threat, he would never suggest it, but something in him knew that Lúthien was a little more capable and dangerous than she presented herself as. It was Cullen who needed convincing. It was Cullen who stuck to a hero complex of overprotectiveness.

"We follow Pierre," Lúthien spoke, her words as composed and serene as her countenance, "We help Cullen?"

Cullen motioned to protest the reductive and somewhat misleading formulation in her head, but Dorian stepped in front of him and immediately cut in, "We get to Val Royeux faster. We get an army faster, and we can find Solas."

Lúthien wrapped her arms around her waist to contemplate the decision before her. _Solas, Fen'harel_. What kind of threat did a mangy knave like Pierre pose, anyway? The real wolf lurked in the shadows still. She was owed her fate, and Cullen was owed his revenge.

* * *

The full moon nestled itself in the bed of stars against the black of night. Through the small circular window carved out of the wall, Lúthien only watched for one. A lone star cast away in the celestial ocean stood apart from the other constellations. It was its own glimmering island, lost at sea and never quite home. She sighed, somewhat tired and feeling lonesome. Her feet missed the oaky roughness of trees, and her fingers longed for the splintered grooves. The Wilds was barely a shadow of what it once was, but even its skeletal remains proved more of a home than anything she saw.

It was a sleepless night, after all. She could not dream, not with Cullen or the memories she yearned to relive. The veil was oppressively thick where they were, and she knew it would only worsen the farther away she is from the enchantment of her forest. Lúthien felt fragmented, broken off, like parts of her were splintered.

She contemplated Dorian's words and the necessity to travel with Pierre for her to help Cullen. In truth, she was not afraid of him. Though they had yet to see each other, thanks in large part to Dorian arranging for different quarters, she questioned the safety of traveling with someone so untrustworthy. Her fingers groped for the tightly pulling twine of her bow as it stood on the side of the straw bed. Lúthien had seen the likes of Pierre before. Even during Elvhenan, ravenous slave masters feeding off of the power of the Evanuris, who themselves were not above reproach, trampled what little they could. She bit her lip in bitter remembrance. _You must sleep_. Was this fate what they had planned for her? Was she ever truly in Uthenera? She recalled her almost death-like state with atrophied limbs and barely functioning mind. She wondered at the possibility that Fen'harel awoke in the same similar helplessness. It did not take long for her body to recover, but it was taking longer for her consciousness to retrieve itself. Often she felt like the puppet of another's will or a soul trapped in another's body. The simple thought of it made her shudder.

A few feet from the bed, Cullen and Dorian slept in their cots as if the inn room was just another temporary camp they set up in the forest. She could hear the mild drumming of Dorian's throaty snoring and the ruffles of sheets where Cullen struggled to stay asleep. Unlike the elf, he was regularly visited by nightmares. Nightmares so loud, she could hear all that he suffered. One of them was familiar to her. The sight of blood, the endless screams of a woman, and a powerful mage locking them for dead in a tower that opened so many wounds for the shemlen. Her hand ran down her belly, feeling the same cramping knots she experienced days before in the forest. She wondered why the spirit clung so hard to her, replaying for her the macabre scene of grisly death.

As her stomach tightened, her ears perked to the sound of Cullen incoherently mumbling. Dorian's snoring was almost enough to overpower the otherwise inaudible sounds, but Lúthien knew part of it was the indelible mark she suffered. Since awakening, Cullen's thoughts, feelings, and dreams have played out for her like memories coming to the surface. When his heart palpitated, she felt it. When his lungs constricted, she found it difficult to breathe.

Her limbs grazed against the scratchy surface of her mattress, itching against the coarse straw. It didn't help that, in the cover of night, she undressed down to rags Cullen called "smallclothes" (an offering he made, saying they were a clean and extra pair of his that she could use). A loose undershirt hugged the frame of her torso, and billowy yet shortened breeches covered the top of her waist down to her lower thighs. Though she found it more comfortable sleeping in them than the over encumbering size of her dress, the smallclothes only exposed more of her skin to the prickly straw. Wistfully, she envied the two men. She would have preferred the hard smoothness of wood over the rash-giving blight they called straw.

"Please, stop..." Cullen's whispers permeated her mind. Sweat streamed down his temples and his muscles contracted to the point of burning pain. Lúthien placed both palms on her belly, wrenching at sensations that came from his dream. She wished she had the strength to walk the Fade once more and pull him out of the nightmare. His teeth were grinding against each other in between the muffled out words. Exasperated with the sounds, Lúthien turned on her side and placed her fingers on the edge of the bed, peering over to where he was lying down. She bit her lip at the piteous sight of him. There he was, wrapped in the leathers of his cot. He sweated profusely, but he shivered as if standing against howling and wintry winds. She recalled the first night she watched him sleep, all those nights ago in the ruins of the Temple of Sylaise, when, in his recovery against a fatal attack, he underwent such tremors.

Slowly, Lúthien crept off her straw bed, soundlessly planting both feet on the floor. Dorian's throaty snore remained undisturbed as she crawled her way over him, passing his awkwardly sleeping form to reach their suffering companion. Despite moving a snail's pace on her knees, Lúthien maintained the effortless agility of a huntress prowling in the dark. Though the moonlight barely hit the room, she could see just as clearly in the darkness. The shadows seemed to carry her to her destination, reaching the rough hide shelling Cullen's sleeping roll. Now mere inches apart, she could hear his tense breathing and feel the tremors rumbling from his mouth. Lúthien crawled towards him, laying by his side and running a hand through the sweat-soaked hair on his head.

The elf wanted to soothe him, calm him without ripping open his world of sleep. With a gentle hum, she began to settle herself into a story. The thoughts in her mind drowned out the ambient noise of Dorian's sleeping habits, and before long the words rose to the surface of her consciousness. Her tongue would rely on Elven, the ancient language opaque to her shemlen's ears, but she hoped that, somehow, he would understand and hear with a gentle heart.

"Cullen, can you hear me?" Her words were a mere whimper, barely audible. It swept over him like a gentle evening breeze. "I remember some things, Cullen." Her fingers traced the line of his nose, feeling the pores and coarseness of his skin. "In Elvhenan, we used to be able to fly." The tip of her fingers, still soft like budding tulips, fell to the lines on his jaws, the signs of his age. "We used to be able to touch clouds, and soar so close to the sun."

Cullen's breathing softened from the sound of her murmurings. He moved, his face following the traces of her fingers.

"I never liked to fly. I preferred the forest, the lullabies of the trees... I felt safe and solid there, where leaves crawled to embrace me."

The rushed beating of his heart slowed to a restful pace. A soft mewl, unexpected but pleasantly infant-like, rushed like purrs from his throat. "My mistress, Sylaise, once said I had no mother and no father. I was born in the forest." Her hand reached for the loose curls falling from his head and brushed them aside. The grooves on his forehead were pronounced, and she wondered at the fleeting light of mortal life. The frailty and transience of him caused a stir in her heart. She clung to him tighter and closer. "In that forest, the water laughed, the wind sang, and I danced every night and every morning. But even then," the tenor of her voice disappeared into the lobe of his ear. "I was alone, Cullen. I was so lonely."

Cullen flinched when Lúthien dug her nails into his tunic. Though his eyes remained shut, the quicker though steadier rhythm of his breathing indicated his sudden wakefulness. His mind swirled in the haze of the darkness surrounding him, but he could feel, pressed close to him, the shape of her. He had heard in his dreams the sound of a voice with words incomprehensible to his mind. No wonder, she was speaking a string of Elven words to his ears.

"I too wanted to change things," she whimpered with a tear welling in her eye. It slithered unnoticed down her cheeks. "I died thinking I have done penance for what my people have done, but now I must live it again." _I must save you from the same mistakes_. The words would not form, would not make themselves heard. Lúthien lost her story in the darkness of the night. How did it fall apart so quickly? She thought to tell him of what she thought should have been happier times. She thought he would hear through her words the images she conjured of a time considered impossible to shemlen reality. Now it was she who sought shelter, not from a passing storm but from the overwhelming realization of an irretrievable past. Did Fen'harel contemplate the same things? Did he too search for better times upon awakening? Her fingers clenched tighter at the thought of finding him, of once more entering Uthenera. The humans hunted him with chaotic determination in their eagerness to survive, and somehow she shared in their passion. Everything that hurt her and everything that she lost would not be brought back through another violent cataclysm.

Cullen couldn't feign sleep any longer. The sadness in her words, though unintelligible to his uninitiated mind, reverberated in him. He moved one of his hands underneath her side and wrapped it around her waist in an effort to comfort her. To speak would be to interrupt her. To say anything at all would only confirm for all the world this moment of vulnerability she was showing him.

"Cullen," his name barely escaped past the withheld sobs.

She knew he was awake, and with that acknowledgment, he rubbed the small of her back in a soothing manner. Dorian snored through their little private embrace, and for once Cullen was grateful for the fact that he was a heavy sleeper.

"Yes?" Although Cullen thought he spoke as softly and quietly as Lúthien, the gruff sound of his sleep-heady voice prompted a coughed-up scratch from Dorian, whirring his snoring to a pause. Both their hearts violently stilled in their chests when they heard him shift audibly in his bedroll. The absence of his snoring made every noise, from the tiniest pin drops, crash louder than thunder.

A moment.

And the feather of anticipation hovered to a gentle descent. The slumbering mage shifted once more before his arm thudded loudly on the floor and the snoring resumed its course.

"Lavellan, what was she?" The language was unequivocally the Common Tongue now. She wanted him to speak of her? To tell her the bedtime story of his past love? Cullen slugged a nervous ball tightening in the back of his mouth. He found it difficult to even begin thinking of answering that question while a younger and more libidinous lover burrowed in his arms.

Cullen opened his eyelids halfway, still glancing down the crown of her head. He wanted to ask her what she meant and why she wanted to know, but the fear of discovery rendered him paralyzed.

"I see her," Lúthien responded. "She calls, but I..." The quivering woman bit her lip. Seeing was not the right word. She remembered her in ways only one who was there, in those moments, could remember. Yet nothing, not even in Elven, could convey that bizarre reality she lived. And these moments always happened around and through Cullen – a sign that, perhaps, he thought of or remembered her constantly.

Pressing her closer, he reached down towards one of her ears, pushing back the frizz of her hair and tried his best to mutter for her an answer. "Kind." Cullen checked from the corner of his eye any shift in Dorian's movements, and he listened attentively for any change in his breathing and telltale snoring. Nothing. With the coast clear, he again inched closer to her ear lobe, not in an act of seduction but in an effort to speak without being heard. "She did right by everyone, even if it hurt her in the end." Cullen gritted his teeth and immediately regretted the picture he just painted. Lavellan was no martyr.

Sighing, he readied himself for another attempt. His hand traveled from the base of Lúthien's spine up to her neck. Compulsively, he reached for that scar on the back of her skull. The searing flesh wound turned into a barely dried scab. Strangely enough, he took pleasure in caressing it from above the layers of her impenetrable hair.

"She had a strange liking for frilly cakes – ashamed of it too." A smile crept up his scar in preparation for laughter, but he immediately stifled whatever noise he would have made. "She had no patience for little things. No time to wash up from a day's hunt; no patience to sit through a meeting; always skimmed reports; made her moves inn chess without planning..." _And I loved her for it_.

He could not bring himself to confess this obvious truth. Not aloud, no.

Although it was pitch black in the room, save for the pale column protruding from the small window, he could feel Lúthien's cheeks rise to a smile. She sat up next to him on her elbows without a hint of sound. A warm and puckered kiss fell on Cullen's jawline. _Thank you_ , she seemed to say. He did his best to peer at her from the darkness. Surprisingly, sharing those details about his late wife to Lúthien was not as distasteful or at least uncomfortable as he thought. The moment was instead another of their many moments of exchanging secrets. The elf knew just one more thing about him, one more thing that he hadn't shown anyone else before. Cullen's right hand reached out and reached the side of her chin. His thumb grazed against the edge of her lips while his fingers nuzzled the softness of her cheeks. He caressed her in the comfort of the shadows where they took shelter. If Lúthien was to mean something more to him, or if they were leading to anything, Cullen thought it was better that he was more honest about that blissful past. Lavellan had become an inextricable part of him. Three years. Such a short amount in the grand scheme of things, but each moment was packed with memories and happiness that would follow him for the rest of his life. It only made sense.

Wrapped in sleepy silence, Cullen almost forgot how pleasant it was to have something warm, someone soft lay next to him in sleep. The way he gently teased her healing wound and the way her bare legs grazed against the leather of his breeches made for a playful yet erotic mood. His thoughts inevitably wandered to the afternoon they had and the rapidity with which the events unfolded. To think that just earlier, they had been in a _very_ different position stirred his blood to a seething frenzy. She was straddling him, his hands exploring the shape of her softness... He subconsciously tightened his embrace of her, almost curling into her body as he replayed in his mind the sound of her moans.

From beside him, Lúthien felt the hardness of his erection brush against her hips. She wanted to laugh, wondering when he wanted to continue and if the present moment was even appropriate for continuing. His hand moved away from the back of her head, both of them now tracing the shape of her hips and the curve of her spine. Looking at him, his eyes were closed, trying to press his face in the burrows of her neck. She felt him take a deep inhale against her skin – an act she found charming. He always breathed in her scent when they were so close together, just as they were now. Within seconds, his hands began to draw lines around her bottom, underneath her smallclothes and between her thighs. Her hips rolled into his hand at the same time he undid the laces of her smalls and slowly pulled them down from over her knees. Lúthien cast a nervous glance over her shoulder to where Dorian lay sleeping. From the corner of the room, his sleep-filled sounds and unflattering position remain unchanged. She breathed a sigh of relief before returning her attention back to Cullen.

The sleepless man really was beside himself. He knew whatever they were doing should not be happening. Dorian was in the room. They were on the floor. So many red flags and justifications pounded in his mind, fighting the rather strong urges he was acting on. But Cullen was trapped in another world. He craved badly and achingly. Once he pulled down and discarded her smalls, he lost no time in moving up her waist where, underneath the tunic, he searched for the soft peaks of her breasts, small and firm in his hands. She mewled at his touch, biting her lip as he aggressively fondled her. The sounds she made seized him with fear. As soon as he heard that tantalizing whimpers, he grabbed her by the waist and climbed on top of her. Pinning her down with his weight, he smothered her lips with his mouth, biting and nibbling so her harsh breathing stayed muffled.

Lúthien took the gesture differently. She assumed that Cullen had finally asserted himself, expressing his desire without averring a cause or grandiose declaration. Happily, she spread her legs open from underneath him, inviting his pelvis in the embrace of her thighs. Cullen almost groaned upon feeling her naked and wet warmth.

A coy smile erupted from her pursed mouth, still recoiling over Cullen's stifling kiss. As if they had done this before, over and over, she reached down to the laces holding together his clothes over his waist. Slowly, she tugged at the strings until they hung loose from his vestments. Lúthien showed neither hesitation nor shyness. Everything she did had musical fluidity, and her finesse and eagerness in performing only riled up the older man even more. He pulled away from their kiss, placing the palm of his hand over her mouth as his pupils followed her listless eyes. His erection throbbed now, feeling the intoxicating softness of her folds. When she finally pulled his breeches down from under his bottom, Cullen wasted no time. He brusquely entered her, fully seating his entire length inside her. Lúthien's muscles clenched at the impact, and her thighs locked around him. She almost moaned, whimpering in the emptiness of the night, but she instead bit down on Cullen's fingers over her lip.

Lúthien remembered stories of the days of old, when her people were barely adapted to the idea of a civilization or of propriety. Her people spoke of those ancient days when, cowering in fear against much stronger and ferocious elements, families would huddle close in dark and dank caves. Men and women would mate on top of one another for the viewing pleasure of all who inhabited the same shelter. It was necessity. It was carnality. As she lied down beneath Cullen's stalwart weight, nibbling on his salty skin, she wondered if what they were doing had the same sense of urgency.

Much to Cullen's surprise, she showed no discomfort or displeasure. Lúthien writhed in intoxicating certainty, sighing and moaning as he pushed slowly and gently inside her. He was much too afraid, arrested by the fear of getting caught, to quicken his pace or add more force. He knew that the sleeping figure of his friend miraculously remained his unflatteringly snoring self, but the threat of the floorboards creaking in protest or even the sound of skin on skin slapping from sheer force made him tremble as he lay couched inside her.

Lúthien bucked her hips to beckon him to continue, to let the fears melt away. What need did they have to worry? If they wake Dorian, he can get up and leave. At least, that was how her aching and needing mind rationalized the titillating forbidden act. She brushed his hand away from her mouth and reached up to kiss him. Her desperation stole away what breath Cullen had left. He wanted to cave in, to forget the world and simply have her as she so deliciously offered. She rolled her hips towards him in an effort to pull him in the same maddening l'ivresse du sang that trapped her.

Their impromptu lovemaking started to escalate into something more desperate. Cullen thought he had to fight her for control, to calm her and stop her from losing herself. In one swift maneuver, he rose on his knees while turning her so she was flat on her stomach. The ridges of her spine, thinly covered by her loose tunic, pushed against the tautness of his abdomen.

Lúthien almost gasped half in delight and half in utter shock. She felt Cullen's erection brush against the back of her thighs as his hips curved over her arse. He breathed low and over her neck with his torso bringing the weight of theirs down to the floorboards. With one hand, he parted her legs wider and searched for her moist opening once more. The elf flinched as she felt a finger protrude inside her before it quickly pulled out. "Cullen?" she whimpered, but before she could turn over her shoulder to look at him, he thrust inside her with brutish vigor. Her knees caved under his weight, and her stomach lay flat against the floor as he rolled his hips further and further inside her. Cullen's hands pinned hers down, their fingers locking while his hips slapped against her bottom and his erection pushed deeper into her tightened muscles. Unfamiliar as Lúthien was with the position, she quite liked the novelty of it.

With the way he fucked her, she thought of animals cajoling under the shelter of large fanning leaves of the forest. The image actually thrilled her, and that the position allowed Cullen to accelerate his pace, to force himself against the clenching of her muscles without shaking the entire inn, left her in breathless and heady excitement.

Afraid of his own aggressive movements, Cullen leaned forward and dotted the back of her neck with a slither of kisses. The kisses eventually turned to playful biting, with his mouth bruising the surface of her skin. As he kept pumping into her, their muscles were strained and tense at the thought of being discovered. The sweat pored from between their bodies. Lúthien could feel her bottom slapping and sticking against the bones of her lover's hips.

Cullen felt himself close, but the distraction of ambient noise and Dorian's snoring proved insufferable. It would help if he could just drown out those noises; to allow Lúthien to sing from the ecstasy she quietly held in with a soft bite of her lips. His eyes were shut tight, and his fingers were almost crushing Lúthien's with his grip. The stream of pre-cum mixed with her wetness made each thrust smoother and electrifying. She mewled quietly, however much she could, as he withdrew his cock only to slam it back in.

"Please!" her voice was louder now, but still hushed under the strain of their breathing. The sound of her did him in. Cullen roared out a blissful moan – a moan he immediately stifled by biting down on the curve of her back. His whole body shook in enervating tremors as he felt the warm liquid spear out of his throbbing cock. Her insides tightened around, her pink and velvety opening squeezing, thirsting for more of his gift.

A big smile was plastered on the elf's euphoric face. She could feel his hot cum spread inside her. The warm liquid pump edthrough him as he continued pounding into her with the same robust speed. It was making her wetter... tighter...

Lúthien parted her lips to cry out his name, but Cullen immediately caught her choked moans with his hand and pressed her down on the floor. The muffled cry of her orgasm sent him reeling. Her whole body clamped as she felt white-hot pleasure stab through her. She coiled as her lover continued pumping all that was left of him into her. She thought she lost all feeling in her legs, as a jolting and ringing sensation shot through her center. When the last of his drops entered her, Cullen gave one last thrust and stayed with his hard cock fully seated inside her. Burying his head into the back of her neck and in the softness of her hair, he closed his eyes and breathed in her scent. His hunger was at last sated.

Opening her eyes, all Lúthien could see was white. She felt a little delirious and started to giggle.

Cullen eased himself atop her, letting her roll over her side to lie down flat on her back. Though she looked blissful if not completely drunk on the newfound sensations of her experience, he couldn't help but feel a tinge of regret. Is this how he would treat her? He bit his tongue thinking that making love with a woman entailed fucking her out of a lack of self-control. Cullen thought bitterly to how different he was in his first few rumblings in the art of love with his wife – sweeter if not more careful to the other person's needs. He apologetically held her in the dark of the night, listening to the impossible reality that Dorian had slept through the entire thing.

The elf smiled up at him and held his sweat-ridden face in her hands. She placed a gratifying kiss on his forehead as if to assuage whatever thoughts were plaguing his mind. Whatever it could be, it didn't matter. She was happy. With that, she nuzzled his neck with the tip of her nose, seeking shelter in his arms for the dark evenings of mortal sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

_Six Years Earlier_

Ellana Lavellan saw the familiar ground of a dark yet sleepy forest loom from the glow of the moonlight. Padded footsteps crushed brittle leaves from behind her. Gasping, she quickly spun around. There, before her, a wolf stalked with eyes a clear grey, like luminous fog engulfing her in a gaze. It crouched low on a ledge not far away, motionless and waiting. She smiled and reached out her hand. But the wolf whimpered at the sight of her outstretched arms. It lifted its nose to the darkness of the sky and howled against the symphony of crickets and the evening breeze.

"Don't be afraid," she spoke as quietly as she could. Yet the creature was unmoved. Lavellan saw a winding and stony path led up the hill. Her eyes lit up, realizing just how close they were to each other. She hurriedly lifted the ends of the soft fabric of her sleeping gown so she could safely navigate the thorny bushes and treacherous rocks. Once she stood before the impasse, she ran her fingers against the rocky grooves through which she could begin her climb. Looking down on her belly, she softly said a prayer for safety – both to the Maker and to her gods – in case the path proved more dangerous than it seemed. Satisfied, she stuck her hands on jutting stone as she readied to pull herself up.

"I wouldn't do that if I were you," a familiar voice called out from the darkness behind her.

Startled, Lavellan turned away from her climb to face the intruder. There stood a figure she did not expect; a friend she thought lost long ago. A smile was all she could offer in hopes he would not shy away in fear. "You're here..." The once almighty Inquisitor sighed in sweet relief. It was as if the journey of finding him – a journey she never undertook in her waking state – had once and for all come to its conclusion. "I thought I lost you." Her hands clasped over her stomach, unable to cease her beaming out of sheer contentment.

Solas slowly approached and walked into the pale dimness of the moonlight. He wore those familiar and tattered robes, casual and reminiscent of days spent dreaming in far off ruins. Lavellan noted, not without sentimental cheer, that his tabard and leggings were still in tatters. Even in dreams he looked the same.

"You will never lose me, lethallan." Though Solas remained straight-faced, truly he bubbled with so much joy at her warm reception. He almost held out his hand to clasp hers, to perhaps let her know how riddled he was with regret, with love, and with longing. Yet he found the inspiration to check himself. Glancing over to her fingers, he saw the gleam of a golden band, a wedding ring. He noticed another change too. She was leaner, paler – somewhat emaciated, much to his dismay. Still, for all the malnourishment her body hinted at, a slight curve protruded from her belly. "You're with child." The grimness in his voice was not lost on his dear friend, who could only smile sadly at what she sensed was his disappointment.

"Yes," her hand rubbed where she could see his grey and sullen eyes stared agape. "Cullen and I will have a family soon. Seven moons..." Her brow flinched upon noticing the wistfulness in her voice. Somehow seven moons seemed like seven eons. Already her journey towards a brighter and happier future was filled with nightmarish anxiety and unceasing ailments. It was quite the opposite of her dream. _This_ dream, which was perhaps the most at peace she felt since they first conceived. It was strangely relaxing, and the thought tugged at her heart a little. Her fingers curled, wondering if she should feel guilty for indulging in this fleeting escape.

"I am happy for you," announced the once-apostate mage. "For both of you," he ended his words with a courteous smile. Lavellan could tell he wore that same old mask, hiding behind formality and quelling the truth under the firm thumb of his principles. It hurt her to think he did not trust her enough to be honest with her.

"Where have you been all this time?" she asked. "We were worried..." Her question trailed off into the night. Her eyes fell on the ground, thinking bitterly of the questions she plagued herself with.

"No, _you_ were worried," he said half-jokingly. "I cannot speak for the others, however." The bitter truth stung the moment he spoke it. Solas's presence, albeit sometimes spent in playful camaraderie, would not be missed in the Inquisition. He was an anomaly that brought fear to those who only wanted "normal." The Inquisitor, however, was unique in this way. She had always defied normal.

Lavellan curled her lips into a frown. "Don't say those things," she said chidingly. Solas did not respond. He instead let themselves revel in somber silence, appreciating the look and feel of being in each other's presence was more. Whatever thoughts he may have had, whatever fantasies played out in his head, they were nothing compared to the reality of standing before her and sharing in her kindness.

"Forgive me," he said suddenly. The abruptness of his voice pulled Lavellan out of her waking sleepiness. "In all the dreams I dreamt, with all the hopes I had, I thought you were... happy." The last word broke the hypnotizing rhythm of his words. For all his airs about fearing and loathing the company of others, Solas did his best to calm her with dulcet tones and polite grins. He had such a soft heart, and she knew it well.

Solas turned away from the pensive woman standing before him. She was much too quiet, and sadness lurked behind the weight of her breathing. What was it? He recalled those days, when from the balcony of Skyhold's solarium, he would watch – not without a bit of jealousy – Lavellan take leisurely strolls with the handsome and amiable commander on the battlements. He remembered with furrowed brows when they appeared like two dots in the horizon, shoulder to shoulder. He convinced himself long ago that it was for the best. The work of Fen'harel had to continue, and nothing as trivial and fleeting as love in a mortal life should waylay him. Still, the Inquisitor was not like most women. She truly cherished him and his eccentricities like any true friend. In her company, he thought he would never have to feel the fear of dying alone again.

Lavellan saw from the corner of her eye that Solas was doing it again. He was getting lost in his brooding thoughts. She breathed out a sigh before relaxing her shoulders. "I am happy," came her slow and delayed answer. "But happiness is not without its moments of sadness, as I am sure you already know."

The wisdom in her words rang hollow for the tragic figure that Solas was. The truth was always biting and painful once intoned in speech. He grimaced at the thought of all the sacrifices he made and ones he would have to make, soon. His sharp eyes caught her when Lavellan ran a hand on her belly once more, but this time she huddled slightly and winced. It lasted only for a second before she quickly smiled and brushed against her other arm as if she could will the moment away.

"I thought I wouldn't be able to feel pain in dreams," her audible thought sounded more like an excuse. Solas frowned even more at the news that his friend was worse off for wear than he initially thought.

"The baby is hurting you," his callous observation made the other elf straighten her spine. A wrinkle lined the otherwise smooth surface of his forehead. Without a thought or a word, he inched closer and placed a hand over her stomach. Lavellan jumped in surprise, but she stood firm in her spot. His sudden gesture was a little too abrupt and forward for her to take in. Solas, on the other hand, looked even more pensive and upset than he had mere moments before. Feeling her stomach, he could sense the state of her body and of the child. Something vibrated strangely in her womb, ringing sinister to Solas's senses. It felt _wrong_. He was no midwife, no expert of the field that so meticulously and arduously guided life through the most difficult passage of all, but even he knew – with his little knowledge – that his friend was _not_ well. "What does Cullen say of this?"

Lavellan's once tanned and rosy skin flushed into an ivory pallor upon his question. One of her least favorite things about Solas was his uncanny ability to sift through her lies. Biting her lip, she decided to forego any sort of alibi. It was a dream, after all. She could tell him. "He doesn't know-..."

Solas immediately pulled his hand away from her stomach upon hearing the appalling truth. His eyes turned sharp and ich, narrowed and disbelieving in what he just heard. "You haven't told your husband and the father of your child that you are _dying_?" He did not mean for the truth to come out in such blunt and full force. Lavellan almost cowered underneath his height before quickly inching a few paces away. Seeing how pained she was at his chastisement, Solas immediately regretted how disdainful he was.

"Dying?" her question was barely a whimper, skin turning a deathly pallor. For the past several weeks, she brushed aside any concerns about her health in the assumption that the pregnancy was merely an unusually difficult one. She had heard of plenty of women who struggled with as much. Many have survived. As Inquisitor, she had the most skillful of healers at her disposal, and Cullen, in his doting and dutiful attentions, always made sure her every need and concerns were taken care of. That pregnancy would ultimately lead to _her_ death seemed utterly and absolutely preposterous. "You can't mean that," she said in doleful protest.

Solas grimaced slightly. No, he did not want to mean it. Looking at her, he almost regretted the dream. The once fearless and vivacious archer stood before him shivering in helplessness. At the moment, she had not the strength for the truth. "I am sorry, again. Forgive my exaggeration. I only meant that if your health continues in this way, it could risk you and the baby." It was a small enough white lie. Small so that she wouldn't panic, but enough for her to try to alter the course of her life.

Lavellan eyed him suspiciously, untrusting of his sudden change of tone. "Why are you here, Solas?" It has been little over a year and suddenly he returns to her in dreams.

The seriousness of his expression relaxed and melded into a more lighthearted smile. "But Lethallan, I am _always_ here." His friend was still a little puzzled, and so he continued, "I am always in dreams. You just happened to call out to me this evening." Somehow, his answer was not satisfactory. Their reunion dramatically changed from that of warm joy to coldness of untrusting friendship. Solas noted that, instead of her short hair swiped to the side, Lavellan had grown it into long waves of chestnut. Her once narrowed and focused point of the brow was now always wrinkled in concern or fright. Perhaps she was not the woman he remembered, but she was still beautiful, only now she was more delicate – frail.

The Inquisitor was still unhappy with his answer. She parted her lips in protest of all he was telling her, but she thought better of it. What use was reasoning or gaining the truth of him? He had never really opened up to her, never really trusted her with all he had to say. She thought bitterly to those first few months when they had just discovered Skyhold. There was a moment – a sweet but transient moment – when he almost did. A kiss, stolen in a dream... A sigh escaped her lips. But he didn't, and that made all the difference. "You could have said goodbye, you know." Lavellan did her best to hold on to what ease or goodwill she had earlier. "I know you were not the... happiest... elf when you found out about Cullen." She wanted to laugh in her reminiscence. Though Solas masked it at the time, she knew he was a little upset if not jealous over the development in her love life. Things changed, and she moved on. For all his faults, Cullen never wavered in affection. No hiding, no lies. Just Cullen.

Solas shot her a pained look for having voiced what was still a very sore point for him. "In that you are wrong," the words came out slightly harsh, but his point would be taken. "I was... _relieved_ you found someone who made you happy – who still does, I'm assuming." His last, added bit of hesitation evoked a line of worry on her brow. Assumptions were never safe. It always hinted at the doubt lingering, however low and hushed. He turned away from her to look up at the moon. The light of it gave him a little strength, the strength he lacked to face her in speaking the words. "If only he cared for you as much as he cared for the dream of having a family." No rancor trailed his words. Pretty words, words that culled like forgetful sleep were for the weak. In all their friendship, Lavellan had always inquired of him what truth and wisdom he had.

Lavellan frowned, with her brow creasing defensively. "You don't know that." The wind felt cool against her shoulders. Dressed only in her nightgown, she wondered how this dream could transport her into such a cold, unwelcoming environment. "He _loves_ me." She hoped the anger in her voice was enough to correct him on this matter.

Solas said nothing in return, only a glance he would not share with her. How could he tell her? It would have been better if they waited – waited until Solas was strong enough to remove the mark from her body. Now, it was corrupting her and the child. Yet he had not the heart. They were so eager to escape into a blissful ending, to live happily and carefree of the worries of the world. "I do not doubt that," he replied in an apologetic tone. "I merely wonder how either of you, perhaps you especially, are able to ..."

For once, the knowledgeable Solas was at a loss for words. The narrowness of his eyes evinced his dithering, and Lavellan could not help but pry him for an answer. "What?"

The pause in his breath indeed worried her, but she could see tension roll off his jaws when he finally reclaimed his calmness. With all the sobriety he could muster, he continued, "We killed many people to get where we are today, Inquisitor. I would not fault you if you find a peaceful life – a married life – difficult to live after the horrors you have faced."

His concerns stilled the beating of her heart, but it nonetheless made her lips tremble. Somehow, Solas put to words what she considered unimaginable. Even if her victims had been Red Templars, Venatori, possessed Grey Wardens... she killed them all and saw the terror in their eyes all in the name of the greater good. The tragedy of being Inquisitor, or of being any kind of hero at all, was the impossibility to cope with those choices. Often, she thought to herself admittedly, she longed for those carefree days when the memories never once dwelled in her.

"I've seen the worst life has to offer," he continued. The gleam in his eyes shone with images long gone, of a distant past neither of them could reach. "I, too, regret much of my past, and I will regret much more in the future."

The enigmatic apostate was speaking in riddles. She knew it was his way of saying things without really saying them. She wondered at the answer that hid beneath them and if they carried the secret of his disappearance. What would he know of regret? Least of all, _her_ regrets. Solas always spoke of dreaming in a distant world, far from the cares of their material one. It didn't make sense to her that he too carried burdens far heavier than what his shoulders could carry.

"Sometimes," Solas's voice filled the void of her silence. He never was one for small talk, but she knew he wasn't merely chatting. This was a dream they've shared for the first time in a long time. He would make use of it. He would do his best to reveal what he could, to salvage whatever he could. "I wonder what could have been," a smile pressed his lips when he spoke, looking placidly upon her figure. "It's... comforting to have that hope, to carry it with me wherever I go." The mage clasped his hands behind his back and suddenly assumed tenseness in his shoulders. "I take joy knowing you are in capable hands. He has you to dream with, if not in the Fade, then in life." Somehow, it sounded to Lavellan as if he was saying goodbye. "You have a reality with which you can escape the nightmares of the life you led."

There he was again, she thought bitterly. Solas always committed the mortal sin of acting like he knew better, or that he chose for her a life she carved out all by herself. She wanted to lash out at him, to rip his sense of superiority right out from underneath his toes. "You're right," she conceded not without contempt. "I have Cullen now." Her words bore more disdain than she wanted, and seeing his face contort against her hurtful words, she wondered at the leftover feelings he may still have carried. "I have him to worry over me, to force me into a quieter life. That's what we do, right?" Perhaps she was more upset than she knew. Perhaps, in all these months, she suffered a little more each day knowing that she was beyond a happy life. That secretly, what haunted her were not the nightmares of regret but of repressed longing. Bloodlust. Her voice shook in the sudden energy rising from her depths, and her fists clenched at her sides. "Rise from the ranks, save the world, get married, and get _fucking_ pregnant." And now, according to Solas, she was dying. The baby was killing her. The one thing that everyone told her, over and over, that would help her move on from the violence and suffering of a heroic past would be her end after all.

Solas inched closer, but stopped himself short of reaching out an apologetic clasp of the hand or perhaps a comforting embrace. The pensiveness of his expression broke her, making her realize how desperate her unhappiness was.

With her eyes leveling the cold and frigid soil beneath her toes, Lavellan exhaled deeply and took in the air around her. She loved the world of the Fade, perhaps as much as Solas. It was invigorating to feel so light and heavy all at once. Tears started to stream down her face, disbelieving of her sudden outburst. "Everyday and every morning, Cullen places a kiss on my belly. He believes it will bring the child good luck." A stifled laugh rolled through her words in remembrance of her husband's silly superstition. The shudder in her voice choked her words from coming out. _I should be happy_. "...I love him, I do. But..." The back of her hand swiped across her eyes, scrunching out what tears were welling and escaping from the ends of her soaked lashes. But what? She didn't know, and for once, neither did Solas. How could he? One could not know everything, least of all the pitfalls and secrets of a love deeper than incipient infatuation.

Solas had no response for the seeming non sequitur. He merely listened attentively. Funny, he was always the one giving her lectures, and it was odd that his dear friend should suddenly indulge in her own sentimentality. She looked up at him, dark eyes gleaming like obsidian, "He believes the baby can give us hope; that the Maker is giving us hope." _So please don't take it away from me_. She did not need to finish the train of her thought. It was written in her eyes and in the tears she fought so hard to suppress.

Sensing the hurt in her cowering frame, the elven mage walked towards her once more. He lifted her chin with the tip of two fingers, raising her eyes to meet his. "Forgive me. I only wish the two of you could have the happiness you seek." Her lips quivered at his touch, uncertain of where he was going. With the brush of a finger, he swiped away what stray tear fell from her eyes. With a sigh, Solas imparted to her the sweet melody of what he would have called a prayer, "Mala suledin nadas, Ellana. Ma da'assan." A gasp of air shook her from peaceful sleep. The darkness that enveloped them soon engulfed the forest, the traces of the wolf, and all memory of her beleaguered friend.

Like the splash of frigid waves, she was plunged into the harsh light of the late morning. Lavellan sat up in wakeful fright, and with her, Cullen too woke after having been startled. She was lying curled against him, his arms wrapped around her waist with a hand resting softly on her stomach. He peered sleepily over her shoulder, "What's wrong?" He rose over her, one hand vigorously rubbing his eye by the knuckle.

Lavellan took a deep breath before settling once more into the warmth of his arms. "Nothing," she whispered in a haze. She slowly turned to face him and rested a palm on his sleep-hazed cheeks, grazing against the stubble of his jaw. "It was just a dream."

Happy with her answer, Cullen let out a yawn and kissed her forehead, lovingly wishing her better dreams. He pressed her closer against him, holding on tight and wishing she would never let go.

* * *

Cullen looked nervously at the scene before him, where a woman lay splayed out in his arms half-naked. Peeking over Lúthien, pink-bitten marks dotted the nape of her neck. Looking over to the small window, he saw the rose-tinted hue of sunrise creeping against the blackness of the arboreal horizon. He wondered at the previous night, at his newfound and apparently uncontrollable desire for the mysterious elf. _Bite marks_? How childish of him, or so he thought.

Slowly, he raised his hips as to noiselessly pull up his breeches and fastened the laces. Once finished, he rose with support from his elbows and glanced over at the slumbering elf beside him. For a moment, he wondered if he should wake her rather than attempt what he was about to do. But her peaceful and contented expression, coupled with the softness of her closed, sleep-ridden eyes made the decision for him. He carefully rolled his legs out of the cot before kneeling on the hardwood floor. Sliding his arms from underneath her, he raised the upper half of her back with his left hand and, on the other, curved the back of her thighs on his elbow. As he pulled her slowly from the cot, her head fell and rested against his chest. The movement shook Cullen for a moment, and so his eyes fluttered down in an effort to see she was awake. Eyes closed, no movement. With a sigh, the maneuver continued as planned.

From across the room, Dorian still snored loudly with a throaty scratch, prompting Cullen to wonder at the marvelous feats his vocal cords could accomplish. He inhaled deeply as he unbent one knee to rise, but the floor instantly creaked at their combined and burdensome weight. _Shit_. Looking around, again no movement from either two. Perhaps his lovemaking really knocked out Lúthien, and Dorian was just... dead to the world. Either way, thank the maker for such heavy sleepers. Cullen was a little fed up trying to be delicate about the situation, and so with a relaxed exhale, he swiftly rose, mindful of the noises he made. He did his best to attempt what could be called a "tip toe" towards the four-post bed sitting empty in the middle of the room. Gently, he laid Lúthien's lithe figure down on the straw mattress, taking extra care not to wake her at this crucial and final stage.

Once she lay snug on the straw, Cullen noticed that Lúthien's bottom half was completely bare. _Her smallclothes_. He suddenly remembered that, in the heat of passion and in the dark of night, he casually discarded and threw them away. Honeyed eyes scanned the recently inhabited bedroll on the floor. There, tucked under one of the blankets, the smallclothes _he_ loaned her for the time being, or maybe it was best she keep them for good. Either way. Without further deliberation, Cullen swiftly ambled back and grabbed them before returning to Lúthien's sleeping side.

A slight and incoherent muttering interrupted the rhythm of Dorian's steadfast snoring. Cullen flinched upon hearing the noise. _Dorian is waking_ _up_. He had no time to dress the elf. Glancing down on her exposed navel, down to the bareness concealed by the weaving of her thighs, he suddenly inhaled her sweet honeysuckle scent, tinted with the salty sweat of their late night indulgence. From groove at the bottom of her groin, her skin glistened with the dried stickiness of his seed. Cullen bit his lip, nervously thinking of his own carelessness and what was to come next.

 _No_ , no time for those thoughts... or small clothes. He placed them next to her on the bed before grabbing the blanket that still lay on his bedroll. Swiftly, he rolled it out in the air and gently let it hover down to her sleeping frame.

Cullen thought better than to wash his face or undertake his morning ministrations in the same room. The loud splashing noise would wake them, and, besides, he knew he could use brisk and fresh morning air. He cast one more look at Lúthien, seeing if she displayed any hints of waking. Nothing. Nothing but a slight shift of her thighs, rolling to her side on the straw. His mind wandered to the lingering traces of her kiss upon his lips, the tight feeling of her wrapping around him... Cullen couldn't help but smile. It would be their secret. It _had_ to be a secret. If anyone discovered how quickly their heated dalliance escalated, they would all consider her nothing more than a whore – a _rabbit_ fluffing her tale for her master. The smile immediately dissolved into a grimace. Without further ado, he exited the room carrying the bitter thought with him.

He gently shut the door behind him, making sure the click of the latch did not so much as ring an alarm for the other two. Descending down the steps, he noticed the inn was dead and unpopulated. No light flickered in the nearby lamps. No barkeep stood behind the bar to man the mugs, the tankards, and barrels of ale. Cullen hadn't realized how early it still had been. Through one of the windows adjacent to the door, he noticed that the sun's rays barely glimmered against the darkness of the valley. The golden lights played and protruded against the thin veil of rosy pink beneath the waning blue of long-forgotten nighttime. It was a new day.

Much to his surprise, the front door burst open and the innkeeper came in with a basket of bread rolls on one hand and a small porcelain jar on the other. "Morning," he said with a tip of his chin. Cullen nodded back without a word. The corpulent, jolly old man gingerly placed the basket on a bench in the center of the tavern. Next to it, he removed the lid on the jar, revealing melted butter. "Breakfast, Messere," he smiled politely.

"Thank you," Cullen managed from the base of his throat. His voice was still tired and strained, as if suppressing all his breathing and moans the night before caused the soreness. The innkeeper smiled in an effort to avoid small talk. He began proceeding out of the inn to out into the settlement, but before he reached the door Cullen stopped him. "Ser, is there a well?"

The innkeeper curled the tip of his beard with his meaty fingers before answering with a polite smile, "Oh yes, Messere. It is outside, around the back of the inn." He waved his hand back to motion him to follow. Both men slowly paced out of the inn through the doorway, winding around the drooping shanty to the small and meager well, built of crumbling cobblestone and dry wood. Cullen bobbed his head in wordless thanks before the innkeeper left and went on his merry way.

The morning was surprisingly still. No breeze, no wind to brace him for the day ahead of him. Feeling the damp coolness of the early dawn, Cullen hadn't realized just how crusted with sweat both his hair and limbs were. His body shivered against the cold but piercing light of the rising sun. Taking refuge in the shadows, he inched closer to the well and removed his tunic. The morning air caused a slight and shuddering tickle down his exposed spine. The taut muscles of his chest seemed to loosen, engulfed by the crisp air. Breathing deep and heavily, he then picked up the wooden pail and lowered it to retrieve the fresh, crisp water. Once the pail was filled to the brim, he turned it upside down over his head, letting the frigid cascade jolt his body to a cleansing wake. Cullen whipped his head to the side and sprayed the nearby grass with water from his hair. A drop trickled down his nose, and his eyes closed in rapt remembrance of the familiar heat emanating from his body.

He thought of her hands, the hands that familiarly nestled his cheek, the hands that so eagerly freed his desire from the restraints of clothing, the same hand that – in the blink of an eye – fought and banished a demon from their reality, ringing with the same force and magic as the anchor he once knew of.

Cullen planted his hands on the edge of the well, feeling the coarse stone scrape against his fingers. His right hand still bore the harsh marks of Lúthien's biting, fighting against his attempts to mute her sounds. His knees quaked at the thought of her suppressing her mewling with the soft bite of her teeth against his hand. He stared into the darkness of the well, appearing bottomless and abyssal. _Here we go again_ , he thought not without feeling some sort of self-aggravation. Cullen was falling again, falling for another woman, another elf... perhaps even another would-be hero whose hand played a significant role in the unfolding events. Maker, what did he do? Save him from such blasted heroines. For a moment, he contemplated breaking his promise of helping her, of abandoning her to Dorian and Pierre. There was reason to that course of action. Seen in the truth of it, Cullen knew he was utterly useless in whatever plans his former friends had in confronting or even tracking down Solas. Five years since he embarked on his journey, and he had nothing to show for it. Lúthien, however, had the knowledge and the means. All they needed was her, and he could leave – just like that. He could stop himself from getting into the same maze, the same high and low of falling in love in desperate times, and perhaps he could stop himself from hurting her down the road. A secret affair would injure whatever pride or dignity she had, but a public one – one open to the scrutiny of a world that only bore rancor for elves – would undo her all the same. To run and break things off would be the best way, the least painful way.

He almost bit his tongue in his brooding deliberations. _No_. What use was running away? What use was it to worry over what others would say? They were stuck together now. And there was still another issue... Last night would have been what Cullen considered his most careless moment – _the_ most careless moment. The sweet sin of taking her without conversation or planning was pleasantly and silently exhilarating. Yet lost in the fray was any thought or care as to the consequences. He remembered when he first made love to Lavellan. She assured him then of her own cares and planning, and how she drank moon tea to "take care" of any inconveniences. It was a worthwhile idea to perhaps convince Lúthien to do the same. Cullen interrupted his thoughts by pulling on the well rope once more, bringing out the bucket from the cool watery grave below. He threw the bucket in the air for another shower. The sharp icicles falling on his spine felt even more refreshing than the last.

"Ah, a pleasant morning bath?"

Cullen spun around and almost growled at the sight of him. Pierre ambled closer, dressed in the simpler garbs of a traveler's coat. Without a mask, his grin somehow appeared more sinister. The warrior nodded without a word before dropping the pail back into the bottomless pit. He heard a splash and proceeded to pull again.

"I was hoping to run into you, Messere," Pierre walked to the other side of the well, forcing Cullen to face him directly. "I wanted to thank you," his words reverberated with self-satisfied cunning. The Ferelden did his best not to betray any notion that his very presence made him cringe. Pierre sighed, leaning against the wooden post that held the pail above the well. The smug smirk on his face expressed too well how happy he was of their new traveling arrangements. It seemed all sins were forgiven, especially with the elf's assent. "Thank you, Messere, for allowing me to extend my stay with your humble company." Pierre bowed slightly. The gesture was a little out of place and jarring. It was he who was more noble, not Cullen. Cullen had the history of a military career, but he was a peasant – a mere ant to the likes of Orlesians such as Pierre. And elves... well perhaps Lúthien was even less than nothing to him.

"Do not thank me, Pierre," Cullen narrowed his eyes, flatly rejecting Pierre's chummy attempts at reconciliation. "It was Lúthien who allowed you to stay with us." He made no effort to conceal how much he loathed the idea. Once Cullen finished rolling the pulley so that the pale reached the surface once more, he set the filled bucket aside on the grass. Pressing his hands together, side by side, he brought the water to a crashing splash against his face. His lips parted slightly to take in the crisp drink in his tongue. Refreshed, he had no desire to continue the conversation. Cullen quelled the anger seething in his throat and maintained his impassivity. "We will call you when we are ready to leave." He turned and walked away, leaving with his back facing the Orlesian.

"She's a tough fighter, no?" Pierre remained leaning against the post, arms crossed in front of his chest. "Strong, but wriggly and fast – at least, enough to get away." The piercing blue eyes stared prickly knives along his rival's path. The lines on his cheeks impressed a heavier and darker smile, imbuing more meaning than perhaps what any other bystander could catch.

Cullen froze mid step, his fists tightening into a ball on his sides. He spun around in a second and marched back up to Pierre. In an instant, his hand tightened around the tunic on Pierre's coat, pushing him against the post and lifting the younger man several inches off the ground. A ferocious snarl tightened the lines on Cullen's face. The amber eyes burned into a steely and vicious flame. "Listen," he commanded in a rough, husky growl. "You lay another finger, touch so much as another hair on her head..." His grip tightened on Pierre's collar, scrunching the finely made leathers of his garb.

But the Orlesian merely looked down from his elevated height with a slightly amused gaze. He placed both gloved hands on Cullen's lower arm in an effort to push away. "Do not worry, Messere. I will be the most chivalrous of chevaliers."

The warrior angrily released his grip, almost swinging him to the side before Pierre fell back down on the ground on his feet but with a slight bend of his knee. Cullen stared him down, like a lion angered at the jackal's intrusion.

"She is a prize. I will give you that," he said, laughing off the potential skirmish both just avoided. The cavalier smirking on his face was slightly suspect to Cullen, who did not understand at all why he was inscrutably patronizing and nosy that morning. During their travels in the Arbor Wilds, he merely dismissed Pierre as a bigoted minor noble to be tolerated. Now, he was a shadow to be stalked and watched, in case it pounced in unguarded surprise.

After a few moments, Pierre stood back up straight and patted down the scruff collar of his shirt, and with another hand, he smoothed the brown curls off the temple of his head. He looked _too_ boyish, like a child enjoying his pranks with absolute impunity. Pierre chuckled at the glowering menace of Cullen's expression. He waved his hand as if in frilly goodbye before ambling off back into the inn. "My master sent his horses," his head turned slightly back at Cullen as he walked away, back around the corner to the inn. "I sent word, and he sent horses. Be grateful, _commander_."

The older man did not like it, not one bit. He bit his tongue in an effort to suppress whatever profanities he would have impugned upon him. Maker save him, he had to endure the burden of a private and secret affair while accompanying his dangerous and jealous rival. Cullen lowered himself down to the ground, reaching once more for the half empty bucket. His hand cupped the remainder of its contents before splashing it back into his face. The icy sprays of water cooled the heat throbbing in his temple. Closing his eyes, Cullen thought again of the previous night and the comforts of a warm body, a soft kiss, a playful bite... But not even those hazy, blissful moments could pull him out from an anger simmering inside him. Pierre got to him, and it plagued him to think what an easy target he made to those who connived and tricked from the comforts of shadows.

When Pierre's figure disappeared off into the way station, Cullen looked back up at the drooping roof above him. Somewhere in there, the two were still asleep. He debated whether he should wake them in order to make the most of their time and travel as swiftly as possible, or perhaps they deserve some rest. Dorian especially needed it, given that most of his day was spent tracking down the Orlesian). Besides, he was sure Lúthien would not be in a rush to embark on a journey that forced her into a three foot radius from Pierre for days if not months at a time. He dumped the bucket once more into the bottom of the well and readied himself to pull on the rope. They would rest, he decided. They needed it.

* * *

With a grin, Lúthien stared at the spot between her legs not without a hint of amusement. Lying sprawled on the stray mattress, she did not bother to cover herself or even indulge the modest blanket. She wanted to bare her nakedness to the world, to boast of the intoxicating delight that was making love. With pursed lips and a smile that reached from ear to ear, she played over and over her head the almost seamless motions with which Cullen played with her body. A slight heat rumbled from her groin, tantalized by the brusque strength of his arms, pushing her down, climbing on top of her, and taking her like an animal. A giggle flitted from her lips, waking the sleepy room to the brightened light of a mid-morning sun.

A sleepy, annoyed groan rolled out from Dorian's bed cot. He lied down with face and stomach flat on the ground, his bedroll encasing most of his tired figure. "You've been giggling for about half an hour now!" his muffled voice yelled out from inside the cot. Lúthien couldn't help but laugh just a tiny bit more. Suddenly, the upper half of the cot's blanket flew open, revealing a bleary-eyed Dorian complete with horrendously disheveled hair (each unruly strand taking anarchic control of his head) and a corner of his mouth lined with spittle. "You know, you are positively the-..." crimson lined his tawny skin when he realized what it was amusing the elf. "Lúthien!" He let out a gasp mid sentence before quickly wrapping himself in the blanket once more. "Fasta vaas you bloody idiot! Put some clothes on!"

Lúthien suppressed another haughty giggle, stifling the sound with the press of her hand against her mouth, but it did nothing to soothe the irate Magister Pavus. She didn't quite catch the meaning of all that he blurted out, but her good mood took impish delight in his grumpy state. She grabbed the smallclothes Cullen lent her and waved them in the air like despoiled white flag of surrender. "Clothes?" she intoned, her legs kicking up in the air in puerile defiance.

Dorian did not emerge from the shelter of his cot. He simply groaned and yelled out another muted, "Yes!" Although he saw none of the garrulous display she made, he could tell that she delighted in being nuisance, for some odd and apparently arbitrary reason. "Cullen my dear," he called out to the direction of his friend's bedroll while still hidden under layers of blankets, "I insist you shield your eyes. Your lady friend has gone completely mad!" A slight smirk fell on his face when he realized that Cullen, more than anyone he knew at the moment, would probably find himself a new guilty pleasure in this situation. The thought of the former commander nervously running his hand down his neck, getting flustered and flushed like a virgin school boy, would make it all worth it.

But Dorian heard nothing from the other end of the room. Only Lúthien's barely suppressed laughter filled the air, and for a moment Dorian wondered how the uptight ex-Templar could even sleep through this nightmarish haze. Carefully lifting the blanket from his head, he scanned the floor, carefully avoiding the obnoxious nymph on her bed, and his eyes immediately darted to Cullen's rather empty and unmade roll. _Sly bastard_. Dorian rolled his eyes before ruffling his uncouth mess of black hair. "My dear, I _insist_ you put on your clothes, or at least cover yourself with the blanket!"

Lúthien did not answer. She merely rolled happily on the bed, lying on her stomach and exposed rump to the air, and kicking her legs back and forth in wicked glee. The elf was beyond herself, basking in the excitement of her midnight tryst. She reveled at the naughtiness of having committed it in public, and still her lips were deliciously sealed. The need to divulge her secrets pressed against her, but all she could do was respond to the Magister's question. Puckering her lips in disappointment, she curtly answered, "Cullen is gone."

Dorian scoffed at her obviousness. He was still grumpy at the hardwood floors and the migraine plaguing his sleep-ridden ears.

Satisfied with her antics, Lúthien quickly slipped on her smallclothes. Perhaps in dressing, she could look for Cullen, give him a kiss, hug him, ... or find a shadowy and dark corner and partake once more in their titillating game. Either way, the list was endless.

"Thank the Maker you're... _partly_ dressed," Dorian eyed the baggy trouser-like smalls she donned curiously, realizing to whom it belonged. He noted a knowing smirk was on her lips; the somewhat casually mischievous behavior of the otherwise placid elf. She acted like a cat having won its prize.

He raised a disbelieving eyebrow, "Whatever is bothering you this morning, I suggest you work it out." The Magister rose in an undignified and lethargic manner from his bedroll. Yawning, he stretched his arms, as if reaching for opposite sides of the room. "If you don't mind, I will get ready here." Dorian's eyes pointed to the canvas bag containing his fennec-bone comb, oils to coif his hair, and the leather vestments that would go over his tunic. Much to the mage's dread, a bath would have to wait. He overslept _again_ , and he would need to make up precious time by leaving as swiftly as was physically possible. "Put on your chiton, and don't forget your new veil." His finger pointed playfully at his own ears, hinting to Lúthien what was at stake when she dressed so fancifully.

The elf nodded obediently before setting off near the basin to pat herself clean with small droplets of water. She grabbed a cloth hanging on the metal's edge and soaked it in the soapy water before pressing it against the nape of her neck. The pressure startled her, forgetting that little blotches of pink-bitten skin were still raw. Behind her, Dorian lost no time in pulling on his robes and vestments over the tunic and trousers he slept in. He gingerly applied oils in his head before running the mess through with his tooth-sharp comb. Normally, he would need a mirror, but time was of the essence.

A knock pounded against the door. "It's me." Lúthien sat straight up at the sound of Cullen's voice. He was no longer worried about waking them seeing as how much closer the sun approached its zenith. Soon it would be late morning, then afternoon, and before then they would have lost a window of time crucial to the grand quest of searching for Solas.

Dorian was a little surprised to see the sudden change in the elf's body language. She went from gregariously haughty to alert. Brushing away the last strands of hair hastily, he called out into the hollow of the room, "We're up and dressed! You can come in!"

The door opened slowly as Cullen went inch by inch until his upper half jutted in. His hair slicked back along his head, still slightly damp from the makeshift shower he gave himself by the well. He took the sight of Dorian dressed and almost finished with his self-pampering as further confirmation that his presence was allowed. Letting the door swing fully open, he stepped in with a plate of bread rolls and a pitcher of water for his friends. "I brought breakfast," he said meekly.

"Cullen!" a jovial voice shouted by the window. Lúthien lifted the damp towel from her face and almost jumped in elation. Yet she stood fixed by the basin, wrapping the cleaning cloth around her sides and the curves of her hips.

Despite his age, despite his experience, and despite _everything_ , Cullen could not even dare a glance towards _her_ way. He was slightly embarrassed for having run away in the morning, for secretly tucking her in like a tramp to be had and tossed when convenient. He quickly paced to the bed to put the food down, but he stumbled out of nervousness, tripping on nothing but his own lack of dignity. The flustered warrior gave out a slight gasp and caught the attention of the other two, who instinctively made a diving motion as they saw the rolls jump from their plate. But Cullen caught himself and steadied both food and drink. "It's... uh, I'm alright," he said sheepishly. He took a quick breath to steady himself before setting the refreshments down.

Dorian squinted his eye in deep suspicion at Cullen's odd behavior. The man was flustered beyond recognition. He literally _stumbled_ from the simple act of walking. And there was the stammering! Sliding his vision over to the other half the room, Lúthien remained giggling amid her ministrations. Her own eccentricities, the fact that she was wearing a man's (definitely Cullen's) smallclothes, her half-naked state earlier... A glass shattered inside the mage's head when he finally pieced the puzzles together.

Cullen was alert to the abrupt tension seizing Dorian mid-brush of his hair, and so turned to at least distract himself from the _other_ concern in the room. The magister looked somewhat conflicted, his brows furrowed, and his teeth biting quite furiously on his lower lip. Cullen ran a nervous hand down his neck, thinking perhaps his friend was upset or wallowing in self-imposed stress. "I meant to wake you earlier," he mumbled apologetically, _but I was too busy running away from my problems_. He swallowed the words back down his throat before he could voice them.

Magister Pavus's tense expression slowly curved to a sly smile. Guilt was written all over Cullen's face, and it was ridiculous. He opened his mouth to fire questions (when and where did they do it?!), to mock, to pry... but he stopped himself short. What good would that do? As a friend, he owed it to the bashful widower to discuss it privately, perhaps give him some advice on discretion or how to not get so entangled in the arms of every lovely elf he meets. A haughty laugh rolled out his throat. "Thank you, Cullen. Honestly, I appreciate the beauty sleep!" He ambled up to his friend and slapped his hands on his shoulders. "Why, you look marvelously clean! Is there another bath or perhaps a well I could use for my ablutions?" Deep in his thoughts, Dorian relished the delicious and sinful act of writing immediately to Bull and inform him of this new romance. _How typical!_ Mockery was so close on the list of things to do. It was almost cliché for Cullen to so bashfully avoid his new conquests like the plague. Really, a man grown such as he should act his age.

Maker help him, Cullen was so puzzled as to why everyone was acting strange that morning. Did Dorian somehow know? Was he awake the entire time?! Panic seized Cullen with icy fear. A shudder rolled down his spine, and soon he felt so belittled by the knowing gleam in the Magister's eyes. "Yes," Cullen gulped down another set of stifled confessions, "Out back, around the inn." The concise instructions were all he needed.

"Ah!" Dorian exclaimed with a jolly smile. "Off to it then!" He marched merrily around Cullen. So much glee lined his steps that the warrior thought the Magister would prance to the well, but he was gone before the Ferelden could protest the logic of washing _after_ he had gotten ready. The door slammed shut behind him, and now he was left alone with she whom he wanted to avoid most of all.

Lúthien had already forgotten about them amidst their standoff. She returned her attentions to the basin, wringing the damp towel of all its extra water before pressing it against her skin and the roots of her hair. When she heard the door shut, her eyes turned back to the nervous shemlen, who stood by the bed as if he was afraid to come any closer. She quirked her brow at his sudden shyness, wondering if he would stay there forever. She continued rolling the towel over her head and dampened her curls with the moisture. The tunic hung loose on her frame, almost reaching to her knees. The small clothes wrapped around her waist threatened to slip off, unable to completely hug her smaller body.

The awkwardness of her "smallclothes" elicited a soft chuckle from Cullen, who slowly learned to forget what it was that made him so nervous to be around her. Last night, even in the presence of his sleeping friend, he had all the courage and unbidden desire to be with her. Now, in the light of day, how could he be so ashamed? A lopsided smile formed on his lips when he recalled the rather chaste kiss Lúthien gave him when he held her in his arms. Its gentleness sharply contrasted with the heated and voracious act they indulged in. "You should hurry and finish getting ready," he said in an attempt at conversation. "Pierre..." he immediately regretted mentioning the Orlesian to the elf, who quite expectedly and sternly bit her lip at the unpleasant sound of his name. "Duke de Montfort sent horses upon his word. They should arrive soon." Somehow, even alluding to the very practical reasons for Pierre's presence seemed an affront to both lovers.

The elf said nothing. She merely finished up her rinsing and patting, folding the towel over the edge of the basin before bouncing the curls of her hair with her fingers. Her back faced him, and the absence of her voice seemed to ring hollow in the room. Perhaps she was being cold. Cullen couldn't tell. It had been her decision, had it not? She chose to give up her safety by agreeing to Dorian's terms. Still, that tenuous justification did not help matters. She was bitter and rightfully so. Without the words to speak against the Orlesian, she was caught under his finger, and even Cullen was helpless. Should anything happen, he could be there. He could stop anything from even happening; he could stop him from calling her so many names and belittling her like a pitiable animal.

Cullen wanted to wade through whatever awkwardness or discomfort he just caused. He strode over to her side. "I'm sorry," he said not without a tone of regret. "I'm not very good at this," he reached his hand over to her side, turning her by the waist before cupping her cheek with his right hand. The honey in his eyes glowed with inviting warmth as he looked down on the pensive figure before him. Lúthien did not hesitate to let him feel the soft edges of her cheekbones as she tilted her head to side in silent acceptance of his apology.

"We may have to travel with him," Cullen did not want to run away from the glaring issue at hand, as unpleasant as it was. Now that he brought Pierre up, he needed to reassure her, to will away whatever fears still followed her from the Wilds. Pressing his forehead against hers, his lips brushed against the tip of her nose, whispering so closely, "But I won't let anything happen," this time he clasped the oval frame of her face between his hands. "I'll protect you, too."

He could tell that the promise helped. Her lips curled back up, almost reaching from ear to ear. Her lids fluttered closed as he held her so close, breathing in each other with a proximity they knew they would have to limit once they left the room. Yet, even with the delectable sight and smell of her, Cullen felt sadness envelop him. He made that promise before. It was a promise he couldn't keep – one that cost two lives, a future, and perhaps everything he believed in. He wondered to himself how he could have the gall to make the same hubristic oath when he knew even his strength failed him. True, Pierre was just a boy – a boy who stood no chance against a veteran against him. But doubt stayed his conscience, and he knew that, even if the threat of Pierre was gone, he could not evict his powerful friends, their prejudice, and the institutions that enforced those ideas into oppressive action. More tellingly, he couldn't protect her from himself. He loved all too willingly, giving and taking after years of numbing debauchery. This woman, whom he just met, was an enticing mystery to Cullen.

Her lips brushed his, and Cullen almost let himself be captivated into a kiss. But he stopped short, not wanting to forget what he truly came up for. Lúthien looked up in surprise as he spurned her advances. "Listen," he murmured, stilling the motions of her lips and cheeks in his hands. "I..." the nervousness returned. His hands relaxed their grip before slowly travelling down to the curve of her shoulders. His thumbs massaged the ends of her collarbone as he mulled over what to say next. "I wasn't careful last night." Cullen glanced nervously at her expression, trying to read her puzzled look. "I thought you might... um-..."

Lúthien placed confused hands on his chest. His cotton tunic felt rough against the palm of her hands. It was too worn out in his endless days of travel. A wrinkle on her forehead evinced how uncertain she was of his words. Not careful? In what way? He hadn't hurt her, to be sure. Though he left a trail of bite marks, pink and swollen from his nibbling, along her back and around her neck, she felt fine and otherwise happy.

Seeing her confusion, Cullen exhaled to banish whatever apprehension he felt. Alas, he was to start over. "Have you heard of moon tea?" The question sounded so abrupt and irrelevant to his previous ramblings.

"Moon tea?" she repeated with a questioning flinch.

"Oh, well..." Cullen did not understand why he was so worked up about it. It was simple, and surely a woman grown would not be embarrassed to hear it. Images of his former self – the bashful, shy, and unforgivably awkward templar that he was – plagued him in that very moment. He wanted nothing more than to just get on with it. "It's a tea women drink. I first learned of it from Lavellan." He paused to see if she perhaps caught on to his insinuation. Lúthien remained unchanged with her inquiring and somewhat quizzical expression. "You drink it so we wouldn't have to worry. It's a precaution, you see. If we're not careful, it... _I_ wouldn't want to get in the way of what you want." To hammer the point across, his right hand fell down to her waist, clutching at her side and brushing his thumb close to her navel. "We have to be careful," he repeated. Maker, he only wanted to convey the inconvenience of having a child in their state, but he managed to project his own regrets. It only took five years, but he sighed at his own roundabout admission that _he_ was not ready to be a father with Lavellan, as unprepared as she herself was.

Lúthien bit the thickness of her lower lip (a sumptuous habit, much to Cullen's dismay) and nodded in agreement. "I understand," the accented words rumbled from the parting of her mouth. She barely spoke, if at all. But even the simple and modest sentences she constructed were tinged with the sultry melody of her voice, accentuated by the foreignness of her tongue. Cullen found it irresistible and kissed the bridge of her nose.

"Once you're ready, I'll take you to the healer at the way station. She can prepare it for you. Maybe, I can ask her for a supply of the herbs in case we..." Cullen's face colored red as he unwittingly implied the possibility that there would be more opportunities – more evenings like the previous one. He hadn't really thought any of it through, but he never expected to continue either. It was somehow something unspoken between them, like so many things.

Lúthien was beside herself seeing the change in her lover's complexion. She wrapped her arms around his neck and tiptoed to kiss him. Her shemlen seemed to get shy and nervous about everything, but that didn't matter. All she wanted was to repeat the bliss of being in his arms, of having him between her thighs, and moaning under the weight of him. Hot blood spurred her into action, burrowing into the hard press of his chest.

The fabric of the tunic he lent her was very thin, as Cullen discovered. He could feel the soft mounds of her chest push against him and the stiffened peaks protrude through the cloth. He grinned at the eagerness of his little nymph. Her kisses fumbled hungrily as she tried so hard to slip her tongue into his mouth, pressing deeper for the taste of him. But Cullen knew they were on a timeline. He grabbed her arms as they were locked around the width of his neck and pulled them apart. Lúthien purred disapprovingly as she sucked at the bottom of his lip in the hopes that she could sway him into another sensual escape in the privacy of their morning.

"Not now, we have to get going," he said in reluctant refusal as he pulled her away. Maker's breath, they had _just_ discussed the importance of being careful. Now here he was teetering at edge. It was so unusual to be in her presence. Lúthien initiated everything, took charge of what she wanted, and grabbed what she could take. The thrill of indulging her libidinous drive caused a stir for him as well. He wondered at how she was before – before Uthenera. He wondered if many like her, a true nymph hailing from the woods, always dove after the pleasures of life so fearlessly and with abandon.

Lúthien intruded into the sanctuary of Cullen's more controlled mind. She wanted him to let go, to let his body enjoy whatever moments they had left with each other. "Please," she whispered in the same moaning whisper as the previous evening. She left a trail of kisses from underneath his cheek, nuzzling her nose against his beard. Her hands escaped Cullen's, diving underneath his tunic to feel for his skin. "Now," she murmured into his ear through the close of her lips, "just us, here and now." The sound of her and the weight of her demands incited the hot blood coursing through his veins.

Cullen knew and understood her desperation. Once they left the way station, they would be out with the other two for an indefinite amount of time. The boundaries of privacy would cease to exist, and he doubted at their ability to fuck quietly through the night in the company of a sleeping audience. His jaw clenched in deliberation, all the while trying to take control of the elf's more desiring and assertive touch.

Impatient for his answer, Lúthien resorted to feeling. Her hands wandered to the scar she knew well on his shoulder. She could feel more than just the line that marked its beginning. She traced his skin with kisses, reaching a large swollen bump that once bore the twine she once stitched into his body. Her hands crawled along his sides, feeling the hard muscle that had shielded her and embraced her. Slowly, she worked her way down as Cullen stood still. His eyes were closed as his hands remained at his side, trying to restrain himself. Feeling his body this way, Lúthien could feel warmth emanating between her thighs, an aching desire to do more than what she was doing.

With a sigh, he grabbed hold of her hands and pulled them away from his body. Cullen winced as if in torture. His eyes pleaded with her, showing her that he too wanted to partake, to have _his_ fill of her, but the blinding light of the sun pouring through the window marked the passage of time. Shadows moved from behind them, and he knew that Dorian would be up any moment to urge them to begin setting off for their journey.

"Later," he said in a throaty growl "When I know for certain we are and will be left alone." Gently, he planted a light and uninviting kiss – an apology for his refusal. "You should get ready." He gave her a stern look, daring her to disobey the urgency of his command. Slowly, he pulled away from her, to ensure he would not be hooked in once more. Cullen did his best to smile and assure her that nothing indeed was wrong, but all his gestures seemed lost in translation.

The elf pouted, uncertain if he spurned her out of necessity or from lack of desire. Again, she nervously and compulsively bit her lip, afraid that she had done something wrong. Perhaps she _was_ too forward. Without further protest, she obeyed and proceeded to the bedpost where canvas bag sat slumped by its corner. Cullen nodded in approval. He hugged her waist from behind and pressed his lips against the lobe of her ear. "We'll continue this," another repeated promise, sensuous and wholly reminiscent of what had occurred between them. Before she could turn and reciprocate his affections, Cullen walked away not without a sinful gleam in his eye as he made his way to the door, smiling to himself.


	10. Chapter 10

_Five years earlier_

Cullen watched with somber resignation as the woman he loved deteriorated by the day. Lavellan sat hunched over her seat by the balcony. She faced out into the horizon, looking out into the chain of snow-capped mountains reaching to the cerulean heavens blanketed over their heights. The way her eyes blankly stared, it reminded Cullen of Tranquil. She was almost catatonic. His eyes traveling down to her middle, the large and protruding swell of her belly signified the last hope he had. Kneeling beside her, he wrapped his fingers around her cold and clammy hand. Cullen squeezed it tightly to let her know, without pulling her out of the void of her thoughts, that he was still there.

It had been ten days since she last left her room, and almost an entire month since she last met with any dignitary or any official. The small list of people allowed to visit her from a daily basis were narrowed down to three: Cullen, the healer, and the chambermaid in charge of cleaning and replacing their sheets every morning or so. He thought of letting their "inner circle" visit, but almost all of them were indisposed. Their reasons were their own, and besides - ... Cullen buried his face into her lap, working out his frustration on the silk heaped above her thighs. If they could see her now, he was not certain they could ever think of her the same. He was uncertain if they would ever recover from the harrowing disappointment that the Inquisitor was no longer.

Nine moons pregnant. Nine. She was due anytime, but in the days that loomed, neither word nor sound played out from her lips. Every once in a while, Lavellan broke out of her trance to wince at some nightmarish pain, reeling against the curve of her stomach. Other times, she would wake him deep in the night – suddenly lucid and alarmingly sorrowful. He would always be too tired when she had those moments, close to sunrise if not in the dead of night. And in that sleep-hazed confusion, Lavellan would whisper sweet nothings as if she was readying him for a farewell.

At the moment, all Cullen could do was seek affection or the barest glimpse of hope. He laid his head on her lap a little longer, shoulders trembling at how unresponsive she was to his touch. Looking up, he saw not without hurt her deadpan expression. She was off somewhere, escaping the reality that shook her so. "Lavellan... _Ellana_ ," he tried, whispering to her. Cullen brushed his fingers against her left arm. The blighted veins, black and corrupted, were visible from underneath the linen of her nightgown. So far, they had only traveled up and down from her arm, trailing the dormant mark anchor it hit in her hand. "Speak to me," he pleaded in soft tones.

Though her expression remained unchanged, her left hand drifted towards him and caressed the curve of his brow down to his jawline. The gesture made him radiate with unexpected joy. He caught her hand, holding on to it with his thumb rubbing the inside of her palm. He saw that the varicose veins congealed right at the center, and the sight of it almost swept away what hope had left.

"Don't be afraid, ma vhenan," she spoke. Her eyes were glassy and remained fixed on a nothingness trailing off to the distance. "He will save us."

Cullen looked up at her, almost apathetic to the mention of Solas and the promises he would make when Lavellan stole away into dreams. "How?" he asked desperately, wanting to cling to what consciousness she evinced.

A sad smile formed on her lips. "It will all be over soon." The evasive answer filled him with a pang of distraught longing. Lavellan closed her eyes and rubbed a hand down her belly.

Cullen too followed suit, and he could feel the hard thump of continued kicking. The sensation made his eyes light up. He rose from his knees and crouched over her. "No, it's not over," he insisted as he kissed her forehead in a loving, grateful way. His hand remained on her swollen belly. He wanted to keep feeling the life inside her, to know that she indeed would overcome whatever this was. They still could be a family. "I love you," Cullen's voice shook with a well of emotions that were long ago stifled and suffocated. The past few months had been difficult beyond understanding. Everything fell apart so quickly – too quickly. What he thought were a series of the Maker's blessings felled upon him, their wedding and, soon after, their child, turned out to be the precipice upon which his sanity stood. Their quiet life took away from his Inquisitor more than he could have imagined, and it hurt him to see that somehow, he was the cause for her suffering.

"I love you too," Lavellan answered.

Cullen remembered when, the other day, he found his wife standing before a broken mirror. Her hand bled from holding on to a shard of glass so tightly. _"Get it out of me,"_ her words rang in his mind like a banshee's screech. _"Get it out of me! Get it out of me!"_ He looked over to his lower arm, the limb that took the blow when she tried with all her might to stab herself – to stab their child.

Perhaps she wasn't ready. Perhaps the child was indeed killing her, causing the varicose veins in her left arm, the unendurable howling of her pain at night. She once described it to him when the tremors first began. _Like ripping, like claws ripping at your stomach_. Cullen shuddered at the thought, and he wondered how she could have suffered it for so many months. Or even if she was ready to be a mother, the trials of pregnancy took too much away from her. Cullen felt he had to do _something_. _Anything_.

"You can't do anything," her answer was so solemn. Cullen looked up at her in surprise, wondering how she could speak to him as if they shared one mind. Lavellan placed a loving hand, full of the sadness she poured into their brief time together, on his cheeks, cupping his face and cherishing all the textures of his skin. "I'm sorry I failed you, Cullen."

"No," the commander immediately cut her off. "You didn't fail me. You never failed me. You never will," he buried his face in her hands. Shoulders trembled over her lap. His hands went cold, clasping onto her sides. "Please don't talk like you're saying goodbye." The murmur of his voice was muffled by the softness of her hands. Cullen once more fell apart on the floor, his head burrowing into her lap and pressing against the firmness of her swollen middle. His wife took in the tears that he shed silently, hidden from view.

"When we married," her voice was barely a whisper as her hands hovered over his cheek and combed through the straightened curls of his hair, "I was the happiest woman in the world..." her voice shook, wobbling as if under the terrible weight of her own unshed tears.

Cullen couldn't face her. He couldn't look up and watch her face wrench in the despair she quietly suffered and lost to in all those months. All he could do was nuzzle against the comfort her abdomen, hearing for the steady heartbeat of a life ready to leave her.

"I thought I could make you happy..." her murmurs trailed off as she continued running unsteady fingers through the length of his hair. She felt him breathe and take in her warmth on her lap, and for a moment it seemed as if she could hold on to this one second of clarity bestowed upon her. Cullen wanted to protest, to say something against her insinuation that she didn't make him happy, but he couldn't muster the courage to look her in the eye. The temptation of her soft belly, the pillows of her thighs and the silken fabric bunched up above them... he wanted to sleep for all ages pressed against her in such a desperate yet loving way. Yet even that peace evanesced as soon as it emerged. Coldness ran through her fingers, and the songlike spark of her whispers cooled into somber prophecy. "Now we must find him, and it will all be over soon."

* * *

Lúthien tugged nervously at the veil wrapped around the shape of her head. That Dorian wrapped it so tightly around her ears – to be _very_ sure, he insisted – only added to the irritation she felt as it suffocated the lines of her skin. The rest of the fabric fell over the nape of her neck, almost covering the rest of her upper half. _That_ was Cullen's doing. The elf pursed her lips, remembering the pink-bitten flesh dotting the hollows of her neck and all the way back around to the ridges of her spine. Her shemlen only wanted to make sure that the marks remained a secret, that _they_ remained a secret. She cast a nervous glance over to him, sitting across from her in their – what was it Pierre called it? – wagon. It was a strange, medieval sort of thing.

The four of them have been travelling on the Emperor's Way – a well-paved and recently renewed road – through a rather dull and excruciatingly slow three days. Before then, the company received a rather generous and extremely convenient gift. Thanks to Pierre, and the swift word of his master, a horse attached to a wagon of supplies found its way to their way station. The bounty and blessing was not lost on his foreign friends, and so they mostly held their tongue through the trip. They were bribed into complacency, uncomfortable and slightly cramped in their new transport.

The elf pondered the entire concept of a road and even of a highway. She was certain that for three days, nothing but a vast stretch of dirt and cobble met their keen eyes. Most of the day, Cullen would sit sullenly across from her. At the front, Dorian kept Pierre company as they both took turns steering the mare enslaved to the cause of transporting them. Lúthien chewed on her lower lip and scrunched her nose, wondering how the shemlen could endure such extended and almost tortuous tedium. In the time of Elvhenan, they had Eluvians to traverse across vast distances in little to no time. Magnificent cities were connected this way, and even then, the magic of the Fade provided for most of their needs.

The process of traveling itself was not the worst part. The farther they got from the Wilds, the more sparse trees and foliage became. Gone were the titanic and winding branches. Gone was the heavy whirring of music that drummed in her ears; the faint sound of the past lurking in her footsteps. Despite the robes and the linen enveloping her frame, she felt as naked and barren as the hills, lined with a thin sea of browning grass. All she could feel was the thin air that seized her lungs, and nothing but the humdrum of polite conversation and averted gazes filled her long hours under the sun. Everything around them seemed to swirl in a haze of endlessness. Where was this Val Royeux? When would they get there? Weeks, if not a month, was Dorian's reply. But unbeknownst to the Tevinter Magister, Lúthien wanted a more pleasing answer. She wanted a lie that told her they only had the last half of an hour left, and that the journey would be swiftly over. Alas, the poor elvhen had to endure the banality of shemlen lands, their so-called Exalted Plains. When they first crossed into this new region, she had asked Cullen after its name, but his jaw merely tightened at the inquiry. The answer would never come.

Her fingers fidgeted once more at the feel of her veil. Its tightness made her skull throb in mind numbing irritation. She noted how, even in her anxious movements, Cullen seemed to stare at her, or pass through her. She could never tell. He whiled the hours away by losing himself in the recesses of his mind. Often, Lúthien made attempts to peer into his thoughts, to perhaps have a grasp of his own state of mind, but she was considerably weakened in the Plains.

"Are you alright?" his voice startled her. Lúthien hadn't been aware that he was _actually_ watching this whole time. "Good?" he said in hopes of somewhat translating the question in terms she could understand.

The elf nodded her head in placid approval. At this point, she understood more complex sentences, including "Are you alright?" He had no need to hold her hand through the uncomplicated lexicon of their so-called Common Tongue (and she always wondered with whom did they have it in common?). His question proved a helpful distraction for her hands finally settled on the folds of her dress over her lap. She smiled somewhat bashfully, prompting the shemlen to reach his hand out over hers, squeezing gently and protectively. Cullen too returned her warmth. Though she found it odd, he seemed to enjoy the peace of riding at the back of wagon – away from Pierre and the sight of the road ahead.

After a while, Cullen let go of her hand and reclined back on the edge of the wagon. He crossed his arms over his chest, and closed his eyes as if in restful sleep. Lúthien often enjoyed these pockets of hours when they would relish the quiet of their days together. Glancing over him, she noticed that his beard – it was a full beard now – shone dark in the light of day. One could make out the traces of grey that protruded from his jaw, and the dark stubble encroaching the middle of his neck. Elvhen never had such whiskers or manes. What Cullen had was a novelty she secretly delighted in, combing her hands through its prickly thickness as often as she could in the cover of night, when all else slept. His hair too was another delight she indulged. It had grown since they first met into disheveled curls basking in the breeze that occasionally embraced them in the rolling hills. It was even lighter under the brightness of the baking sun and somewhat lined with a silver dusting.

Though she herself was garbed in the fancy airs of a silken chiton, she noted that all three men equipped themselves better. Cullen, in particular, wore a leather harness fastened by metal buckles over his cotton tunic. Rawhide pauldrons and pads shielded the length of his arms from whatever danger they perhaps anticipated. Lúthien's cheeks reddened into heated anticipation when she thought of their "misadventures" in the previous evenings, and the one they were sure to embark on in the night to come. She thought of running her hands underneath the harnesses, unbuckling them for him, and tracing the lines of hard muscle and little scars that comprised his sculpted body. He too would humor his well-kept desires under the cover of night. He too would almost always threaten to tear her dress away in built up anticipation and the terror should they be discovered. Their evening "talks," as she would call them, took place without moon or stars as witnesses. They would steal away in the shadows long after the other two had fallen into deep sleep and melt into each other's arms, however brief it seemed.

"How are you doing my dear?" Dorian called out from the front. He half turned, looking at her from over his shoulder. His hair ran amok, swept in all directions from the wind. Pity, she thought, he always had perfectly coiffed hair. The elf simply nodded in response, hoping not to look over at Pierre, who focused his attentions solely on the road as coach driver.

Since her little affair with Cullen started, Lúthien noticed that Pierre was somewhat more agreeable. He stopped calling her names, if only in virtue of the fact that he almost ceased all efforts to ever communicate with her. If needed, he would indirectly ask Dorian or Cullen (though usually Dorian) to perhaps relay a much-needed message about concealing her ears better or reaching for a water cask for the two co-drivers. Yet even that was rare. She noticed too that Dorian and Cullen would cast curious glances at each other whenever Pierre was somehow physically near her or in need to speak with her. Was there a taciturn pact between the three? Did they all decide that she was not to be bothered and not to be tainted at all by his presence? It was a curious development in their travels.

"Look behind you," Cullen ordered in a low and gentle voice. Lúthien wasted no time obeying, swiftly turning by her hips and adjusting her veil so it wouldn't pull against her movements. In the horizon, ancient stone jutted out from the emerald waves before them. Wolves carved from the boulders of sprouting hills and ruined arches lined the scenery. _Fen'harel_. She recognized the design. The familiar rows of stone arches reaching across slumped mounds and hills were mere skeletons to what was their former body – a temple large, domed, housing a spire of Eluvians for pilgrims alike. It was what shemlen would consider the Elvhen way station, a center through which a myriad of paths crossed. Now, it was nothing, less than a hovel for casual wanderers to rest their rumps on. Though the ruins stood miles from where they were on the Emperor's Way, she could feel in her heart the distant song of ghosts still prowling about the abandoned remains. A downcast expression fell on her eyes, and for a moment her head slumped towards the objects that soon became distant, like mere dots drifting into the expanse.

"I'm sorry," Cullen spoke in an apologetic murmur. "I thought you would be interested to see it. I-..." His jaws clenched in bitter regret, upset at himself for the carelessness in his ways. "I should have known better."

Lúthien turned back and seated herself properly. She straightened her back, trying to erase the remnants of whatever sadness had enveloped her. "Tel abelas." It was her turn to softly and politely command, to share with him what she had left – the living and breathing gift of language.

"What are you two lovebirds yammering on about?" Dorian intruded into their little bubble once more. From the glossy sheen of his eyes, Lúthien could tell he was exhausted if not absolutely un-amused by the suddenly silent Pierre. She wondered if she should volunteer Cullen to take turns with Dorian, as unpleasant as it may be to sit next to his unwitting rival. The thought of it made her hand reach back to the base of her skull, feeling for the peeling scab overtaken by the curls of her hair. Poking at it, she almost frowned in disappointment when she realized she had another thick layer of linen masking her entire head.

From his seat, Cullen glowered with arms wrapped tightly across his chest, pressing against the leather harness of his armor. He did not take Dorian's bait; neither did he show complacency at his teasing.

Tease as he might, Lúthien often thought, in somewhat nervous paranoia, that somehow Dorian truly was awake that fateful night. _Impossible_ , she would have sensed it. Her magic would have alerted her to listening ears or prowling eyes, and yet he constantly mocked them as the couple to be envied or star-crossed lovers trapped in the humdrum of the Plains. Sanguine blood rushed to her cheeks, reveling at the idea that they may have had an audience. No, again... _impossible_. She looked again off to the distance, trying to distract herself from what attentions Dorian so desperately tried to get from them.

"Ah, I see you are looking at the ruins," Dorian observed loudly. None of them knew if he was speaking to any of them, all of them, or perhaps merely to himself. They were unsure. Days of travel without any outside contact were getting to him, clearly. "We scoured them months ago, hoping to find a battalion of elves or even Solas himself." The Magister stopped himself short of perhaps unveiling the whole history of failures their combined political efforts have mustered.

"We?" Cullen asked. He was unaware of any such organized efforts.

"Yes," Dorian replied tersely. "Tevinter, Orlais, and Ferelden. _We._ " The mage's slight emphasis elicited a suspecting furrow of the brow from Cullen, as if an accusation was implied in the statement. Concerted work and concerted efforts. Surely, Dorian was insinuating or accusing him for the lack of involvement through the years. The Ferelden brushed the back of his thumb on the thick ridges of his lip scar, scratching compulsively and nervously.

"No temple." The interruption made both men turn their heads to Lúthien. With arms clasped over her knees and body still half turned towards the distance, her eyes searched for what she could of the ruins she saw. She suddenly longed for another glimpse, for another sight of what was and what should have been. "Fen'harel, not in temple. Not in any temple." Lúthien was not certain for herself how or why she knew this. Her audience turned to each other, somewhat believing and somewhat skeptical.

Dorian placed his arm over the seat irons dividing the driver's seat from the rest of the carriage. A half smile formed, curling his mustache upwards as he eagerly listened for her reasoning. "Why is that?"

The elf glanced back at him with eyes deep in pensive thought. "He did not like them." No, in fact she knew deep in her heart how much he detested them. Looking at the ruins somehow reminded her of his fear against worship and deification. Her brows furrowed as if remembering a disagreement or an argument that revealed this much to her. Her hand crawled up to her other arm and scratched the elbow. She was fidgeting again, but this time in nervous recollection of fragmented memories. " _Tel garas solasan_... Come not to place of pride," she translated the idiomatic phrase as if to hint to them a deeper meaning. If they were to look for him, they would need to search in places near and dear to his heart. Private, solitary, and long-forgotten. That was how she would describe any place where he took shelter, and it was entirely possible that he was far away in another corner of the world.

"A place of pride," Dorian pinched the tip of his mustache, mulling over the words. "He considered temples a place of pride?" Lúthien nodded, happy to see him get the answer. Though they finally came to some sort of progress in their cat-and-mouse game, that the logic led to another cul-de-sac slightly worried them all. Magister Pavus, especially, was feeling a little downtrodden. How were they to look for Solas? He never divulged much as a member of the Inquisition. The place from which he came remained a secret, and the only other person who could have possibly known, the one friend he made in year he spent with them was gone.

Next to him, Pierre shifted slightly as he whipped the reins to urge the horses faster. "If I were him, I would choose what I miss the most." Everyone jumped in surprise at hearing Pierre contribute. "Think about it, Messere," he faced Dorian while absent-mindedly driving on the straight path before them. "If you plan vengeance on a people in the name of the world you once lived, where would you go?"

"Home," the response this time came from Cullen, whose surly countenance dissipated into sober contemplation. His steely amber eyes focused on the elf sitting across from him when he realized the weight of Pierre's words. Lúthien did not leave the Arbor Wilds. In fact, if it were not for him, she would never have left. The forest was her home.

The cart jolted and made them all jump slightly from their seats as it hit a protruding rock. Cullen instinctively shot out a hand to steady Lúthien, who struggled to keep her veil in place against the impact of the cart's movements.

"What was that?!" Dorian exclaimed somewhat in shock of the sudden interruption.

Pierre merely shrugged, "Must be a rock." For the entire conversation he never once looked back at the cart. His eyes were mostly glued to the long line of dirt trailing off infinitely into the distance. Yet even in this aversion he was acutely aware of the woman sitting several feet behind him. Somehow, he thought he could playfully shrug off whatever ill will she bore him, or perhaps he could brush away his own unchecked and inexplicable feelings on the situation. But every once in a while, he would reward himself with a fleeting glance at her and suddenly his loins would be set aflame. Swallowing a choking knot in his throat, his attentions returned once more to the path.

A few seconds then dispelled the effect of the jolting surprise, and soon the party calmed its nerves and went back to staring off into the void. Lúthien scanned the horizon once more in search of more ruins. It always filled her with sorrow to see remnants of her past, but she was drawn to it like moth to a flame. Seeing them played with emotions slumbering in the recesses of her consciousness. Yet nothing lay before them, nothing but the flat expanse of grass and the cloudless sky before them.

"What was your family like?" The question came from Cullen, who now sat back on his seat, arms crossed, and knees apart.

He looked more lethargic than she had ever seen him. Quite surprisingly, Lúthien thought idleness suited his countenance well. The other two did not turn to join their conversation, but she could see their ears perk up in rapt attention. She found it interesting that her shemlen suddenly took an interest in her past. In the Wilds, none of them attempted conversation with her. It was considered a futile cause, and they only hoped that more time would perhaps let the truth slowly unfold from her fledgling practice of their language. It was interesting too that, given the topic of the previous conversation, it would have been more pertinent to inquire of _her_ home. Of course, Cullen knew this already. He had shared a dream with her, saw the forest in a different light from the oppressive reality wherein they lived.

"Family?" Lúthien asked innocently.

Cullen smiled, remembering the Elven word taught to him years before "Lethal," he knew the root word of it, of _Lethallan, Lethallin..._

The elf's heart fluttered a little upon hearing the word. She had only taught them terms of endearment, and yet somehow her shemlen pieced it together. Perhaps it was...? It didn't matter. He wanted to know more of the past, to sift through its opacity. She smiled warmly before tilting her head to the side in fond retrospection. "No family," she replied.

"No family?! No mother? No father?!" Dorian chimed, breaking his feigned aloofness. Cullen chuckled at the sudden reaction. Somehow he knew this fact too. It was a strange ordeal to get to know Lúthien. Everything was all at once revealed, and at times, the facts float like hazily in his mind as if they were whispered in the deepest of sleep.

Lúthien playfully shook her head. "No family," she repeated to confirm.

"Impossible," muttered the Magister.

Cullen spread his arms out on the sides of the wagon with a teasing smirk. "Is it so impossible? After all these years, I can't believe you still think there _is_ such a thing as impossible." True enough, Cullen witnessed many things since becoming a Templar, most of them considered impossible. Red lyrium, an Ancient Magister darkspawn, his friends walking physically in the Fade... the list was endless. He found it easier to simply discard what preconceived notions he had of the possible. "Were you close with anyone? No friends or even persons you considered family?"

Lúthien bit her lower lip thinking of an answer for his question. The interview was amusing to say the least. The kinds of questions they asked her, even in the past several days, revealed much of how they thought or comprehended the world. Perhaps concepts like "family" were different for shemlen, and she had to reconfigure the meaning of "closeness" or friendship to accommodate what they knew. "Sylaise," the name rumbled from her lips without hint or warning. Her pitch black eyes darted to the canvas bag concealing her one prized possession, the gift of her bow. She nervously bunched the ends of her skirt in her hands, clutching and wrinkling the fabric with a tight grip. _You must die, Lúthien_. The words rang in her ears, wrenching at the strings of her heart as her chest tightened. Her cheerful demeanor evanesced and a shadow fell on her eyes. The topic took a darker turn, and she no longer wanted to discuss. "But no family," she repeated. Perhaps she never had one after all.

Cullen leaned forward in his seat, pensively stooping over his knees. The name rang a bell, but it could have been anything – from the name of a god to a long lost friend. Looking over to Dorian, whose mood also changed in absorption of Lúthien's abrupt melancholy, they both nodded to each other in tacit agreement. They would not press further, but soon they must look into this familiar name. Cullen let a few moments pass before breathing out and combing his unruly, grease-ridden hair back with his fingers. He thought to lose himself in another bout of staring agape at the hypnotizing monotony of the landscape. Yet the name "Sylaise" gnawed at him from the back of his mind. _She must have been a god_ , or one of the Evanuris as Solas insisted. His eyes too fell on the canvas holding Lúthien's bow. He remembered her words almost in their previous days as a traveling company. _Enansal Andruil_. Now knowing the meaning of the word – a _gift_ bestowed upon her from a powerful being – would it not make sense that Lúthien herself was part of such pantheon? The strange abilities, her bewitching and subtle magic, the green glow of her hand when she _absorbed_ the mysterious demon...

"So she is a lost rabbit after all?" Pierre's voice perturbed the air around them. None of them could see if he had that signature grin accompanying his biting words. Lúthien said nothing and did not bother to humor him with a reaction.

Cullen flinched before moving towards the seat irons, "Listen -..."

"Pierre we discussed your use of slurs. It is hardly appropriate to treat our guest that way," Dorian swooped in with a more diplomatic rebuke. Cullen stopped himself short upon hearing the mage address the injury. Somewhat satisfied, he merely fixed a glower at the Orlesian's back, crossing his arms once more before sitting in silent resentment of his presence.

"Forgive me, I mean nothing by it!" Pierre persisted with a slight laugh. "Truly, I wish for nothing more than mere pleasantries in our days of travel."

Silence filled them once more. Whatever bubbling camaraderie was forming in their conversation disappeared and left them with the awkwardness of the wagon's jumpy rhythm and confined quarters. Lúthien's hand reached again for the scar on the base of her skull. Her shoulders tensed, thinking of that day when Pierre so callously held her by the wrists, pinning them against her back in attempt to bend her to his will. Though she agreed to travel with him, a part of her merely repressed what scorn or grudge she bore the tracker. It simmered inside like soundless fog, clouding her thoughts.

The air around them suddenly grew thick with moisture – a phenomenon that made Cullen scrunch his nose in surprise. Pierre too looked up, realizing that a seamless shadow over took the dome of blue sky and golden sun. Above them, dark clouds thick and heavy with friction encompassed the horizon. A rumbling echoed in the distance, and the horses neighed in protest of what was to come.

"A storm?" Dorian mouthed incredulously.

Cullen rose slightly from his seat to look up in the road ahead. "We should make camp," he remarked. Off into the distance, they spotted the onset of more rolling hills with large boulders standing like spires against the sky. To Lúthien's pleasant surprise, a bulwark of trees surrounded the spires as if beckoning them to take shelter. Pierre too noticed it, and he whipped the horses with another flick of the reins to urge them faster.

"Probably half a mile," commented Dorian, squinting his eyes.

Cullen lost no time in rummaging through their packs for one of the tarps they would have used for a tent. He found one folded neatly and knotted together with a rope. "Here, we can drape this over us for now. It could at least keep us warm," he presented it to them like a weapon to be brandished.

Dorian's reaction was a little more or less nonplussed. "Thank you, mother hen. I will make sure not to catch a cold."

Pierre giggled from under his breath at the banter. He tried to hide his amusement with a flick of the reigns, whipping their steed ever faster.

Lúthien too thought she would partake in the mirth seeing as how their journey was already riddled with ill albeit warmly received fortune. Her eyes fell on her shemlen, whose rolled eyes and annoyed quirk of the brow did nothing to take away from the endearing and garrulously boyish look of his annoyance. The greying hair above his ears were a novelty at first, but it added a warmth to him that would otherwise have been muted or washed up in his stern countenance. She liked Cullen, and – despite the less than ideal circumstances – she felt more than happy to be there with him. A sigh escaped her lips as she watched the worrywart Cullen struggle against Dorian, who insisted he _not_ set the tarp up over the wagon lest they look like the worrywart that Cullen was.

"Perhaps pitch the tent over your _lady_ friend! I'm sure she'd appreciate it!" Dorian grinned as he savored Cullen's rather appalled and shocked look.

Cullen's spine stood stiff, a little too rigid to legitimately proclaim his innocence. His body betrayed his discomfort and embarrassment. Rain started to fall, slowly and silently patting against their heads. An abrupt coolness swept the horizon, and soon the party went silent as a cascade of rain drooped in from the low, darkening clouds. As the three men sat quietly, holding on to their edges as Pierre whipped the horse to run at a much faster pace, Lúthien remained seated and placidly pleased. She stuck out her tongue, tasting the waters from the cloud. It tasted of nothing, but the feel of it – like the breeze slithered into tiny drops and kissed her parch throat with its refreshing nip.

"Or perhaps not," Dorian said with a somewhat puzzled though still terribly amused grin. "Either way, quit your clucking!"

Cullen's shoulders slumped in defeat. Looking at the massive, mud-colored tarp, he contemplated maybe enduring even just the tiny bit of rain. Looking over to the elf – his "lady friend" as Dorian put it – she at least seemed to enjoy the unwelcome precipitation.

The brusque whinnying of the horse shook away the comfort of their jollity. Pierre seized the reins and tried to draw the horse back as its front legs kicked into the air in virulent protest. The horizon around them grew darker, and soon, a mist enveloped the path before them. "Merde! What the fuck is wrong with you?! Keep going!" Lúthien winced at how he swore at the beast. Funnily enough, his constant berating of her as a "rabbit" made her a little more sympathetic to the other animals he heaped abuse upon.

The horse ignored Pierre's commands. It whinnied a louder, more spine-shuddering whine before standing on its hind legs and kicking madly. A loud whistle flew past their ears and landed with the shattering of wood. An arrow appeared from the darkening mist around them. It struck a canvas bag that carried their store of food and supplies, stabbing through the fabric and entrenching itself in the wood of the wagon.

"Take cover!" Cullen shouted.

More whistling, and a hail of arrows descended upon them. Dorian immediately jumped off the front seat and rolled over underneath between the two wheels. Pierre, on the other hand, climbed to the back with other two and huddled behind the seat irons. "Shit!" he cursed. The rain grew heavier and thundered out a tempest, drowning out the whistling sound of more arrows landing with full force and speed around them. The horse let out its death rattle as several struck true, felling the beast after having made its side and head a target.

Cullen acted without thinking. He immediately grabbed hold of the elf, carrying her into his arms and flailed both themselves to the floor of the wagon. "We have to move underneath! It's not safe here!" For the first time in a long time, he truly wished he brought his shield. Looking down over him, he watched as Lúthien squirmed from underneath him. Her eyes were in frantic search, arms flailing for something she was missing. She hadn't even paid attention to him or the efforts he went through to shield her. Rising on his knees while keeping his back low, he yelled out against the pounding of the rain, "Go! Before they volley another round!" Grabbing her by the wrist he pulled her up to her feet. The elf resisted in confusion at first for she was too focused searching for her weapon, but she nonetheless followed when Cullen insisted. Together, they jumped off the wagon and dropped to the mudded ground. Pierre followed too and before long, all four of them lay crouched in damp sod underneath the wagon.

"So much for going by horse," Dorian joked. His eyes were squinted against the constant patter of water landing back into his eyes from the soil. All of them looked ridiculous, caked with dirt and almost up to their noses in it.

Pierre jumped when he saw an arrow land too closely from where he crouched. Its head pierced the soil next to him, almost felling the hand he had jutting out from the shelter of the wagon.

"Maker's breath! Who could be attacking us?!" Cullen roared out his question, worried the now thundering storm would drown them.

Dorian shrugged, but they could barely see the movement of his shoulders as the waters rose and made the mud around them slide up. "I don't know, but we certainly can't stay here either!"

Lúthien clutched Cullen's hand, her tight so grip tight it cut off circulation. His amber eyes darted towards her, a look of both worry and confidence brimming in his pupils. "We'll be alright," he mouthed out the words, knowing he couldn't really whisper against the deafening roar of the storm. But the elf wasn't afraid. In fact, she was far from it. Lúthien wondered in both surprise and frustration at how none of them thought to grab their weapons before jumping for shelter.

"Quick! Surround them!" The hail of arrows ceased, making an enclosure around their wagon. Heavy boots slapped against the watery mud, and from underneath the wagon, they spied many feet, perhaps a dozen if not double that, encroach on their perimeter. The sound of metal sliding out its sheath echoed against the thundering air. Swords were drawn. Cullen was unsure if he felt sweat or muddy water line the greys of his hair.

"Come out! You have nowhere to run," a man commanded. His accent was neither Ferelden nor Orlesian. Something was off. Dorian, Pierre, Cullen, and Lúthien all exchanged glances, unsure how to act. It felt like their hearts all palpitated to the same loud drumming that worked up their nerves into knots in their throat. A few moments of silence passed before anyone thought to act.

"Archers, ready your arrows!" They could hear the taut string pulled in preparation for another volley. "Torches, light your flame!"

 _Flame_?! Cullen panicked a little at the threat. His fingers tightened around Lúthien's hand. His steeled gaze fell on her, wondering if perhaps there was something he could do, something he could _say_ to ensure their survival – _her_ survival. His mind raced with thoughts, ideas... Thoughts having cooled, Cullen knew that their attackers, whoever they were, wanted them alive. He had been through enough such hostage-like crises to know. Attackers who attacked to kill would have done so by now, especially given their numbers and current advantage. The warrior gulped down what apprehension he had. "Alright! I'll come out," he barked out. The waters rose, leaving a cloud of water and mist to cloud their vision.

His friends almost all snapped their necks at his sudden capitulation. But before they could protest, Cullen wormed his way through the mud, sliding on his elbows and knees forward. Dorian grabbed the warrior by his elbow before he could reach outside the wagon. Without a sound, the mage mouthed his disagreement, _Don't!_ But Cullen saw neither time nor means for an argument. Their attackers would soon have their way, and the least he could do was increase their chances of survival.

Lúthien too gave him the same despairing look of disagreement. She moved closer to him, pounding her elbows against the soft sod of the ground, caking more of herself and her cherished dress with the muddied dirt. "Mana!" she whispered. But Cullen knew it was for naught. He had already given himself away. With an exasperated sigh, he shrugged off their hold of him and crawled out into the tempest before them.

Once freed from the shadow of the wagon, Cullen had to keep his eyes lowered to the ground. The pounding and thickness of the rain was much worse than he initially thought. Wind blew in menacing force against his cheeks, howling into the night. He couldn't make out the enemy before him. All he could do was rise, one knee at a time, and cower under the fury of the skies above them.

"Hands up! Over your head!" demanded the interlocutor. Cullen obeyed. His eyes focused on the soaked soil beneath him. The rain was too heavy, and the wind carried it from side to side – a rather uncomfortable direction for one's uncloaked eye. What he could only presume was the voice's subordinate rushed in a clatter of metal feet trudging through the mud. A hand patted down his sides and frisked him for more weapons.

"Nothing!" he called out to his superior.

For a while, Cullen heard nothing, not even a whimper from his own comrades, save for the bellowing of thunder off the distance and the overwhelming patter of rain.

From underneath the wagon, Dorian was utterly immobile. He pounded in his head for a plan, hoping the hammer of stress could somehow whack one out from his own fraught panic. The mage then felt a bothersome tug at his shoulder, prompting him to turn wildly and hiss from clenched teeth, "What?!" He still struggled to keep his voice low lest Cullen's bluff would give them all away.

A silent and somewhat apprehensive Pierre pointed a finger to his other side, where Lúthien should have been. "The rabbit is gone!"

Dorian's eyes bulged in a flurry. The elf was a rogue archer after all. He pondered the possibility that she tried to play daring hero by camouflaging herself in the shadows, but the risk was far too great. She would have to slip completely silent through the surrounding battalion to grab her weapon, and even then she could not possibly take them all on her own. "Vishante kaffas," the Magister hissed once more.

"Tell your friends to come out!" the interrogator barked at Cullen.

From where he stood, Cullen was soaked to the bone. The leather harnesses around him were shrinking from the mere absorption of the water, tightening around his chest. He felt his whole torso tremble from the blistering cold of the storm. He wondered how much time he needed, and how he could possibly distract the rest of their attackers. "It's just me," he answered plain and simple. Another flash of lightning closely followed by rolling thunder blasted through the thick, rainy air as if in fury at his blatant lie. The man approached without a response, emerging from the thick fog that surrounded them.

"Check the wagon," the voice commanded, and around him the scuffling of feet approached the vehicle. Cullen's eyes shot up, trying not to give himself away but failing at his impulse to show his own fright. Their eyes met, and Cullen could barely make out a tall, hooded figure. He wore armor, lean metal encasing his long limbs. Fur wrapped around the breastplate engraved with details of crawling vine. But the most striking detail of all was the man himself. Cullen saw the familiar look of pointed ears, thick bridges, and the elongated face that characterized most elves he knew of.

"Ser! Several bags of grain; four sack cloths of clothes, weapons – I see arms, a staff... He is not alone!" The recruit's report echoed in sinister precision. At that point, Cullen could hear the other guards shuffle around in the mud behind him. The sound of a struggle broke out from underneath the wagon, and before long the elves had uncovered their somewhat ill-conceived scheme.

"Unhand me!" Pierre yelled out as two of the bandits pulled him by the arms. Dorian, much to Cullen's surprise, came out much quieter with hands already on his head. "It's alright. Please let go," his requests were unpredictably diplomatic.

"We have the other two, Ser!" the same subordinate shouted from the top of his lungs against the howling rain.

The former commander tried to keep a straight face, hearing that one other person hadn't been found. _She escaped..._ somehow. His lungs relaxed in relieved exhale. This boon boded well for them. Taking another breath, he fixed his gaze once more on their Elven attacker. A menacing scowl marred Cullen's previously stoic expression. Stomping his foot toward his interlocutor, Cullen shouted, "What do you want?! We're just travelers! Have what you will. Just let us go."

The other elves lined the other two next to him. With a shove on their shoulders, the shemlen were forced to kneel on the mud with hands over their heads. "You tread far too close to ruins for mere travelers," answered the leader. He then looked away from Cullen before nodding to his troops. The warrior was unaware what the gesture meant until a sudden blow – a sharp jab in the base of his skull, wiped out all vision from his mind. Everything turned black.

* * *

The sweet music of water rippling against the air, waves slowly foaming... he remembered it all. Seagulls squawked as they soared low in the air, diving with the speed of light into the depths of the oceanic dunes with prey in sight. Around him the sky was an effervescent blue tinged with the crimson light of sunset. A breeze passed him by, and he thought he felt it brace him with the coolness of night. The grains of sand crept around his feet and filled the gaps between his toes. It was so soft.

"Cullen!"

She called him, as she so often did, from so far away. His amber eyes squinted. He tried so hard to reach the distance, to bridge the gap between them. There, she stood on rocky ground on the other side of the beach. All he had to do was take the steps, one foot after another. He reached out his hand, fingers grasping for the small mirage beckoning him to reach her.

"Cullen!"

She kept calling him, but the waves roared louder. They crashed into the bulwark of sand before stretching across into bubbling foam. Then, in a second, they were gone into the air and receded back into the abyss of the sea. Cullen could hardly understand the rhythm of the expanse beyond him. All he could feel was the slow beating of a drum and the smashing of water in thunderous rage against the earth.

"Cullen!" The voice was louder but farther. It seemed to echo all around him.

The water was cold against his legs. White foam pearled around his knees, and he felt himself going frigid. The billowy tunic around him blew against the wind like canvas sails, urging him to go further into the path he chose. The waters rose. Sand turned into sharp rock beneath hem. He could almost taste the salt as he trudged deeper.

"Cullen, please!"

He turned around, looking at her so helpless. _I'm so far away_ , he wanted to say, but his lips wouldn't move – sealed and forever stitched. Another wave crashed against him, but this time it rolled back and pulled him in. He no longer needed to push against the water. It motioned for him to come. A sound... no a song, whirred in his eardrums. It was so far away. He wished he could listen to it, hum it again, and replay it in his mind for all the days to come. But he was underwater now. A barrier surrounded him, stifling the melody and muting whatever pulse he felt.

 _I'm sorry,_ he didn't know to whom he was apologizing, but he felt a weakness in him, tugging him every which way. Cullen wanted more than anyone and anything to give in to the song, to follow it and sleep in its soothing lullaby. His arms fanned across from him as he swam, as if pushing away curtains of heavy sea so he could progress in his path. All he had to do was follow the sound, and he could hear it again. A mass of bubbles floated around him, and soon not even the light of the sun could pierce through the depths. Everything was black, shadows all around him...

 _No, not night_... His eyes widened. Strands of black hair, long and flitting about in the calm of the water. It floated like seaweed anchored to dead weight. The thickness of her hair almost engulfed him, pulling at his body to come closer. Cullen struggled to open his eyes. The saltwater singed him, reddening the white surrounding his pupil. A hand reached out, he grabbed it. It was cold, thin, and it felt rubbery – like the touch of a rotting corpse.

The mass of black hair parted, unveiling the figure from which they came. She was so small, curled like a fetus into her center. Her flesh was dried out, mummified in the depths of the water. Cullen could barely tell who she was. He swam closer to see. His finger brushed away more of the black mass floating around them. Squinting, he tried so hard...

 _Cullen, don't_...

He gasped, opening his mouth and letting the water flood into his lungs. Cullen started to choke, unable to cough out the seawater filling his throat. His arms flailed about him for help, legs kicking desperately to swim back to fresh air and solid ground, but as soon as he inched closer to the surface, a hand shot out and grabbed him by the elbow. Her skin felt leathery, its grip strong as iron. The bones of her fingers protruded from the rotting, peeling flesh. Lines of black traced what should have been the blue of her veins. Horrified, Cullen faced the ghost clinging to him.

The fish-bitten lids of her eyes flinched open. Nothing but milk white, blighted by the same blackened varicose veins. Lips, mouth, and cheeks had already rotted away. The rows of yellow teeth showed against the almost translucent cover of leftover skin. She only had one hand, and it was clasped around him with deathlike desperation. Cullen struggled, fighting to pull away from her and swimming as more water flowed into his lungs and made his head feel light as snow. In the fray, he saw. Wild eyes peered over to the small figure wrapped around her, its atrophied limbs clinging to the protruding bones of her ribcage. It glowed green against the darkness of her vine like hair, and he could see, even though he didn't want to, the same dirt blond hair thinning on the small of its skull. Cullen felt his limbs give away, and the carcass hand pulled him closer, wrapping him in the walls of black. _I'm sorry_. He wanted to say it so badly, but she didn't hear him.

" _Cullen!"_

Shock sent him rising from the ebb of sleep, roaring against a fight he still thought he was losing. With a gasp, Cullen felt air return to his constricted lungs, and soon his head cooled so that vision returned once more. His chest heaved in and out, panting for what life he could hold on to. Soon the scenery returned to him. They were in a grove in the dark of night. Crickets sounded the air, the sky was dark and still cloudy in remembrance of the storm that had just passed through. It was too dark, no star in sight.

Next to him he saw a still unconscious Dorian and Pierre bound by both feet and hands. Seeing them constrained, he felt the impulse to shove them awake only to realize that he too was similarly bound. His wrists shook and legs kicked against the futility of it all. Groaning, he slowly wormed a few inches closer to Dorian's unconscious form: "Psst! Dorian!" he tried to whisper, to gauge how close he was to waking, but no answer.

"Ah, so you're awake."

Cullen jumped. Close to a tree, several feet out into the darkness, he could barely make out a huddled form. A familiar green light, aery spires of emerald, shone on a torch. The figure's visage emerged under the light of veilfire. He was the same elf who addressed him earlier in their attack, but Cullen could see him clearly now. Silver blue vallaslin were littered etchings on his forehead like a network of vines – no, entangled antlers circling around to the crown of his head. His eyes glowed a limpid gold, and his skin a sickly pallor of green against the veilfire's flame.

"I recognize one of your people – the mage next to you, but not you. You, I have not seen before."

The stranger approached with the torch and lit Cullen's surroundings into clarity. The former commander almost bit into his lip in an effort to get up, to free himself from the bindings and avenge himself. Frustrated at the futility facing before him, he could only cry out in an effort to perhaps wake his companions.

"You can yell you like, but we sedated your friends. They will not wake anytime soon."

Cullen froze, looking up at him in stern resignation. The shemlen warrior decided to play along – at least for now.

"One of my men found this," the mysterious figure unsheathed something from his back before throwing it to the ground. The hard metal thudded against the soft grass and left a cloud of dust in the wake of its landing. Then followed a familiar quiver with arrows flailing against its refined leather compartment. The veilfire's green light reflected luminously on the familiar bow, its emerald shade penetrating the glass-like design of its body. It took all of Cullen's strength to mask his panicked reaction.

"Do not fear, _human_ ," the figure saw through the _loup_ and assuaged him in a sinister tone, "We have not found her." Cullen averted his gaze and instead chose to focus on the weapons before him. "It was in one of your bags in the wagon, along with the rest of your weapons, but those do not interest us."

The figure ambled to Cullen's crouched form and stabbed the torch onto the ground, pitching it deep in the Earth so it stood on its own. He then crouched, bending his knee so that he could grab the warrior by the collar of his tunic. Lifting him up in an effortless shift of his arm, the elven stranger brought his eyes closer, "We attacked you thinking you were of that shemlen army, ready to terrorize the fields of Dirthavaren, but clearly we found something else." Without letting go of Cullen, his other hand reached for the bow and pressed it against the warrior's temple. "Do you know what this is?"

Though Cullen maintained an impassive facade, his pupils trembled anxiously and his hair was dampened both by the rain of moments earlier and the sweat beading from his scalp. He didn't answer. Instead he met the stranger with cold eyes, the honeyed hue burning into the amber of a warrior's resolve. The wavelike radiance of the veilfire only added to cold harshness of his glance.

The hooded man merely scoffed, smirking at Cullen's taciturn obstinacy. He lowered his human captive back onto the soil before rising from his knees. Taking the bow in both his hands, his gloved fingers lined the etchings ornamenting the weapon's limbs. Its grip bore an intricate semblance of a hawk, its wings gilded in pale metal. The elf's eyes glimmered in breathtaking awe. "I saw this bow, thousands of years before... It belonged to Andruil, goddess of the hunt." He paused mid lecture and turned to face Cullen. "Are you familiar with the Elvhen gods, human? The Evanuris?"

 _Yes_ , but Cullen bit his lip. He wasn't about to rehash the muddled history Lavellan informed him of so long ago. This mysterious elf who claimed to know Dorian, who claimed to have been alive even in Lúthien's time, whose actions befuddled and threatened him all at once, did nothing to earn his trust. And so the warrior continued in resilient silence.

The stranger chuckled, amused by the spite seething from the human. "I kept you awake, because one of my scouts reported that you know the owner of this weapon. He alerted us of your wagon, and apparently he saw you protect her when we volleyed the arrows." Again, no response from the shemlen, but a fire now burned in his eyes that was not there before. The stranger could read it all in a single glance, and he knew he was on the right track. "If she is who I think she is," he paced around Cullen in circles as he spoke, still grasping and examining the bow for its unique and alluring identity. "Then you must help us find her. She is dangerous and must be stopped."

"What do you want?" Cullen's question cut through the pretenses. The stranger's circumlocution was getting to his nerves. He was more bewildered and confused by the second. Hoping against all hope, Cullen prayed to the Maker that Lúthien would find a way somehow to rescue them, to fight her way through the shadows and dispose of this maddened creature.

"What we all want, shemlen," came the curt yet somber reply from the elf. "Justice."

"Then you've come to the wrong person," Cullen almost spat out his answer in his short-circuited impatience. "We've done nothing wrong."

"Oh?" his amused skepticism was not lost on Cullen. A suppressed laughter contorted the elf's face, casting an ominous shadow on his visage. "I am sure you, yourself, are not above reproach, but let's keep our discussion to the owner of this weapon – the woman you so desperately tried to protect." The sound of the stranger's voice now drifted, leaving the circle he walked around his captive. His figure ventured forth into the darkness of the shadows, and Cullen could no longer make out his outline.

With back turned, the strange elf broadened his shoulders as he looked off into the distance. "Many commit heinous crimes in war. Some, far worse than others." Cullen could hear that his voice lingered at the last thought and was somewhat pensive in recalling. "You humans are no different," he spoke in pronounced condemnation, eyes leering as if Cullen was the guiltiest of them all. "I can hear the song in your blood, human. A familiar song... a hum, like faint whispers plaguing your every waking moment," he paused and let the words ring. He then breathed, cutting sharp into the thickness of the melancholy he seemed to draw from. "You have done much in the name of duty."

The whirring indeed was getting louder in the ex-templar's ears. He had dreamt of it – the song and its call, drowning him, trapping him with visions he never wanted to see. Sweat poured down the more he was aware of it, and the sight of those fish-bitten lids snapping open, grabbing him sent a shudder down his spine.

"You might think you know her, know all that she is to be and ever was, but the truth is..." the elf turned his neck slightly so his golden gaze beamed from the side at the shemlen. "You simply do _not_ know her. You know less than nothing of her, what she was capable of... what she _is_ capable of. Justice demands her death and _not_ the escape of Uthenera as was once granted to her."

A sharp cry slashed through the air around them. It was a man off in the distance, rattling his death in the darkness. The two heard the loud fall of his body as it rolled onto the hard ground.

The stranger grimaced, disappointed his interrogation was cut short. "It appears this conversation has ended. Ar lasa mala revas." And with those foreboding words, he trailed off into the distance with Lúthien's bow still in his hands. After a few moments, his silhouette converged with the shadows surrounding the grove. More cries were heard, and the song of metal colliding against metal sounded out through the emptiness of the forest.

Cullen lost no time in his newfound opportunity. He wormed his way through the grass in an attempt to reach his still unconscious friend. "Dorian!" he called out. Rolling next to his lifeless figure, Cullen nudged the mage's shoulder with his head. He shoved and shoved, but no response. Both Dorian and Pierre remained immobile and unconscious in the wake of the clamoring noise around them.

"Light the veilfire! Kill it! Kill it!" The cries of the enemy troops rumbled through the night in panic-stricken fear. Initially, Cullen thought Lúthien found them and had infiltrated their settlement, but the fight sounded much bigger and much more chaotic than any one person could handle. He rolled to his other side, glancing every which way for _anything_ to free his hands and feet. His vision fixed on the pale light pitched to the sodden earth. _The brazier_. Though veilfire does not burn, he could use to the brazier itself with its sharpened metal edges and blade-like staff. Huffing in a deep breath, Cullen pushed himself with the strength of his knees and shoulders in an effort to close in on the torch. He almost made it, but a frigid touch fell on the back of his neck. The hairs on the end of his skin stood on edge, and Cullen's limbs were struck in paralyzing fear.

"Cullen," her voice soothed through the panic, and Cullen felt relief wade through his body when he turned and saw, among the shadows, the familiar depths of her pitch black eyes. She had a hood concealing much of her face, and she wore the same regalia and armor he saw the other troops had when they were surrounded by the wagon. It was infiltration through disguise.

"Lúthien... what are -..." Cullen's question was cut off by another albeit unhuman scream, this time piercing and harrowingly familiar. They both glanced towards the direction in the depths of the forest. The sounds of men dying, their bodies hitting the ground, and metal thrown off into the air only worsened whatever confusion there already was. "It's that thing!" Cullen almost sat up, with eyes bulging to the rim. He recognized the piercing screech of the demon that once pursued them in the Wilds.

His rescuer all but ignored his pleas for clarity. Taking a pocketknife hidden in her belt, she cut through the ropes binding Cullen's wrists and ankles. The snap of the tether felt like a wave of cool relief on his limbs. He gave his joints a shake before moving to get up. Once freed, they both swiftly moved to their fallen companions. Lúthien unbound Dorian and Cullen likewise freed Pierre. "Wake them," she gruffly ordered, eliciting a frown from the puzzled warrior.

He paused as he turned them both so they lay on their sides. "Our attacker said he 'sedated' them. I'm not sure what sort of poison or magic he might have used." Casting a concerned glance over the two, Cullen made ready to haul Pierre over his shoulder. Lúthien said nothing in response. She merely bit her lip in the small reprieve of silence amidst the distant fighting going on around them. "Can you carry him?" Cullen asked as she her hands fell on Dorian's forehead, checking or perhaps feeling for whatever ailments bothered him.

Lúthien glanced at him in a non-answer. Her eyes were dark, the black pools heavily dilated without light or emotion. The grim line of her lips was too sober for their little moment of reunion. Cullen suspected something happened during her absence, but he thought better to ask in the heat of the moment. Returning to her work, Lúthien lifted Dorian in a similar fashion and, without effort, rolled the majority of the mage's weight over her shoulder, clinging to him with his arm while the other half simply lulled to her side. No doubt, she had the strength to lift him entirely, but her frame was much too small to haul the bulk of the Magister.

Another screech from the creature rattled the thin air, but it was soon followed by another. Cullen almost jumped in startled fear. "There are two of them?!" He asked Lúthien, already knowing that somehow she had something to do with this. It seemed cruel that she or, perhaps her presence, should wreak so much carnage. But the elf ignored him and went her way with Dorian on her shoulders in a backward embrace. "Mya em," she called out from in front of Cullen. The silhouette of their combined bulk waded through the shadows in the opposite direction of the screams and battling. The warrior followed suit, too desperate in their last-minute escape to voice his questions.


End file.
